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Boob by Logan Forster

PROUD LAND

DESERT STORM

MOUNTAIN STALLION

MOUNTAIN
STALLION

LOGAN FORSTER

Illustrated by JESSIE FORSTER

DODD, MEAD & COMPANY NEW YORK 1958

1958 by Logan Forster
All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form
without permission in writing from the publisher

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 56-5489

Printed in the United States of America
by The Haddon Craftsmen, Inc., Scranton, Penna.

FOR ELLEN

who was never too busy nor

too tired to saddle up and

go for a canter with me

L/ontents

1. Return to Glory i

2. Voice from the Grave 14

3. The Gift 24

4. TTie Mustaneros 35

5. T7i Hunters 43

6. The Dangerous Game 52

7. T/ze Strength of Tenor 63

8. "He Is a Killer!" 71

9. T/ie W<zy o/ tfce SfaHion 85

10. Near-fatal Beginning 95

1 1 . The Apache Way 1 1 1

12. W/iife Time Stood Still 119

13. Ponce Makes Up His Mind 129

14. First Victory 141

15. No Quarter! 152

16. The Heart of a Thoroughbred 165

17. Out of the Valley 176

18. The Skies Crash Down 183

19. A Filly Named Hagar 192

viii CONTENTS

20. The World Goes Crazy 203

21. Before the Dawn 212

22. To the Victor 222
Pronunciation and Explanation Reference 239

The characters and situations in this book are wholly
fictional and imaginative: they do not portray and are
not intended to portray any actual persons or parties.

JyLountain btalil

ion

Jiieturn to G7ory

PONCE sat motionless on the bench in the jockeys' room,
his dark eyes fixed on the floor between his booted feet. Only
one accustomed to reading Indian faces could have detected
the signs of tension beneath the still features, and only one
who knew him personally could have known of the nervous-
ness and breathlessness gripping him. He seemed utterly un-
concerned there in the middle of the crowded room where
some fifty riders milled, shouted, laughed and discussed the
past races and those yet to be run.

Absently he reached up and smoothed the black mane of
hair that hung below his shoulders. Instantly he wished he
could recall the gesture, as a half dozen pairs of eyes swung on
him and settled. "Don't let it bother you," he told himself
angrily. "You wear it thus, because you want them all to know
that you are an Apache and proud of your people. Don't worry
about what they are thinking."

A voice came from his left. "You're the fellow called Ponce
who owns the big black filly, aren't you?"

He turned and looked into a pair of blue eyes that reminded
him of the deep, cloudless skies of his native Arizona. He
stared hard at those eyes, and at the face that had the starved
look peculiar to jockeys the world over. There was no rude

i

2 MOUNTAIN STALLION

curiosity, no laughter, no sarcasm. The young man seemed to
be genuinely interested in him.

"Yes/' Ponce murmured. "That is right."

The other nodded, smiling. "I've seen you around quite a
bit lately. Just how many races have you won on that streak
of greased lightning, anyhow?"

"Six," Ponce answered quietly. "Just six."

The blue eyes widened. "Just six, the guy says! How many
times have you started her?"

"Six."

The slender rider in crimson silks hitched himself around
on the bench, regarding Ponce thoughtfully for a moment.
"You take the cake," he stated finally. "Last winter you showed
up out of nowhere and ran off with the Santa Anita Handicap
on a filly no one had seen nor heard of before. You drop out
of sight the next day. Then you show up here and proceed to
win every stakes race you enter. And you act as if it was the
most natural thing in the world!"

Ponce's eyes crinkled at the outer edges, and his lips parted
in a slow smile. "You are the famous Bob Willis," he said.
"How many races have you won?"

"Four hundred or so, I guess. Why?"

Ponce's smile widened. "My six against your four hundred
are not very many, are they then?"

The seasoned jockey shook his head quickly. "Can't figure
it that way, kid. I've been in the game for six years, and I've
lost a lot more than I've won, I can tell you." He paused, his
blue eyes twinkling. "With you, this winning business is get-
ting to be a habit!"

Ponce glanced at the black circle of felt pinned to Willis'
right shoulder. "Number 2," he said. "You ride the English
horse, Trafalgar."

"I'm going to try to ride him," the other corrected him.
"He's got a head that weighs a ton, and half the time he de-

RETURN TO GLORY 3

cides to try to walk the outside rail, just for the heck of it; but
he's my baby today, bless him."

"Maybe/' Ponce said slowly, "you and Trafalgar win this
race, Bob Willis."

"Anything can happen in a race/' Willis agreed without
enthusiasm. "Maybe a big surprise will happen to me today;
but just maybe."

"Riders out!"

At the sudden shout from the loudspeaker directly above
his head, Ponce jumped a foot off the bench, then glanced
quickly around to see if anyone had noticed his nervous reac-
tion to the call. He rose and waited quietly until the first four
riders filed past him. When Bob Willis touched him on the
shoulder and said, "Good luck, kid/' he nodded without
speaking, because he could not trust his voice just then. Fall-
ing into line behind Number Four, he stamped his feet in
their soft-soled boots to relax his legs and stepped along the
short corridor.

A moment later, bright sunlight struck him as he walked
down the narrow path leading to the saddling paddock. He
blinked his eyes rapidly, then held them shut an instant
When he opened them, he saw the eyes of the crowd lining
the path fixed on him. For a brief moment, then, anger
touched him, anger at these people who stared so rudely at
him, who seemed bent upon making him feel strange and
out-of-place in this roaring White World into which Desert
Storm had carried him.

In his expensive white and green silks, he looked like any
other jockey in the line, except for the thick mass of wavy hair
that fell in a black cloud well below his shoulders. It was the
hair, he knew, that excited all the curiosity. Never before had
a full-blooded Apache jockey participated in The Sport of
Kings; or if he had, he had not worn his hair in the old-fash-
ioned way, as Ponce did. "Don't let it worry you," he told

4 MOUNTAIN STALLION

himself for the second time that day. "Let them stare until
their eyes cross, if it will make them happier."

The silent, police-guarded procession ended inside the sad-
dling paddock. Each of the nine jockeys went to his mount for
final instructions from owner and trainer. Ponce saw Desert
Storm standing motionless in her wire mesh stall and stepped
quickly to her. Moving alongside, he ran a hand over her hard
rump, then jumped back as she shook her head angrily and
lashed out at him with a rear foot. For a moment he just
stood backed up against the board wall of the stall and stared
at her, puzzled by her violent reaction to his touch. It was
not the kicking action itself that held him still. He had yet to
see a keyed-up Thoroughbred that did not frequently kick;
Desert Storm was no exception. But her strike just now had
not been the nervous stamping movement common to the
mettlesome racer. It had been prompted by genuine anger
and had been aimed at him.

As he studied her, realization of what troubled her came
and he felt doubt creeping into him. All too clearly, the
powerful black's mind was far removed from anything to do
with today's race. No film of sweat glistened on her neck and
shoulders to tell of her readiness and fitness. She was standing
too straight and too calmly. And the bulging muscles on her
shoulders and rump were rock-hard and still, instead of flaccid
and quivering. All her attention was centered on a colt in the
stall directly opposite her.

Gil Dreen's voice pulled Ponce out of the gloom into which
his thoughts had plunged him. "Don't go too much by the
way she's acting, son," the stocky trainer said quietly. "She'll
move out when the time comes."

Ponce nodded absently, without replying. He knew, of
course, that fillies regularly had "off" days, and Desert Storm
had twice before been quieter in advance of a race than was
good for his own peace of mind. She had not failed to come
out of it when the gates crashed open, however. But she had

RETURN TO GLORY 5

never acted quite the way she was today. He stepped forward
and again ran his hand along her side. He dodged back barely
in time to escape the long yellow teeth as, with a savage snak-
ing movement, she reached around and snapped at him.

He said sharply, "Quit that!" and slapped her with a flat-
handed blow on the muzzle.

Again Gil Dreen spoke from his place at the filly's head.
"She'll be all right, son. But I've got a suggestion to make, if
you'd care to hear it"

Ponce moved closer to the famous trainer of the David For-
rest Thoroughbreds. "Say the thing, please," he requested in a
worried tone. "I don't like the way she acts this day."

"This is a mile and a half race, you know. She's not gone
that distance before, and she's up against some pretty good
routers,* like Trip-Up over there and this new English importa-
tion, Trafalgar. If I were you, I'd rate her pretty well back
until you hit the half. Let her taste the bat a few times while
you're holding her in; it will make her madder than hops. By
the half, I think she'll be in a running frame of mind. If she'll
move then, get to the leaders in the next quarter. Then, com-
ing home, shake her up for all she's worth. She's going to need
everything she's got"

Ponce had been nodding steadily while the other spoke.
Twice he slapped his right boot with the thin whip of whale-
bone and looped leather. Now he glanced down and studied it
as if he had never seen it before. Just once had he struck his
filly with the bat. It had angered her out of all proportion to
the sting itself; but it had served to make her mind her busi-
ness more carefully. He said slowly, reluctantly, "I will use the
bat this time; but only if she refuses to move out."

"Good enough," Gil Dreen said heartily. "Don't be too
concerned, Ponce. Most of the other entries you've met before,
and whipped. You'll do all right this time."

* A Router or Route horse is a distance runner, as opposed to a Sprinter,
or a short distance runner.

6 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Ponce did not appear to be listening. He was gazing through
the meshing at a high-headed colt across from him. "That
Number Eight," he said absently, "I have not seen him
before/'

"That's Trip-Up, the colt I mentioned a minute ago," ex-
plained Gil Dreen quickly. "They say he's fast and likes this
mile and a half. It'll maybe pay you to watch him. I saw him
working out a couple days ago, and I noticed he's got a lot of
early foot."*

Ponce started to answer; but turned instead as a gigantic
brown whirled directly behind Desert Storm and reared in an
attempt to shake his two handlers loose. He was a rawboned
colt, with mountainous shoulders and hindquarters, and it re-
quired the strenuous efforts of two men to control him as he
flung himself about the narrow walking circle. Even as Ponce
reached up and jerked Desert Storm farther into her stall, the
brown reared a second time, holding his handlers a foot off
the ground for an instant Then he plunged down on all fours,
shook his big blazed head savagely and allowed himself to be
hauled on around the circle.

Ponce glanced at Gil Dreen and frowned slightly at the ex-
pression he read in the man's face. He questioned softly, "That
is the Trafalgar you mentioned?" When Gil Dreen nodded
silently, he said in the same soft voice, "You believe he will
beat Desert Storm, I think."

The trainer did not speak for a long moment. He took a
great breath, let it out slowly and looked squarely into Ponce's
eyes. "I don't know, son," he said gently. "The best get beat
sooner or later. You know that as well as I do. Let's just say
you'd better keep an eye on him. And while you're about it,
keep the other eye on his rider. Willis is one of the best in the
game."

"I will do that," Ponce stated. He reached out and touched
Desert Storm's neck firmly. When he spoke again, his words
* An expression denoting the fast getaway ability of a horse.

RETURN TO GLORY 7

were for her alone. "I think maybe you and I will have to go
pretty fast this time. Maybe faster than those other times/'

"Reins over!" the loudspeaker commanded, and nine loops
of leather flipped up and settled over nine necks.

"Riders up!"

Ponce raised his left foot, and when Gil Dreen put both
hands under it, he grasped the tiny saddle and the reins and
sprang astride. A moment later he was turning Desert Storm
after Number Four in the procession heading out onto the
track.

Throughout the parade up past the grandstand at a walk,
Ponce centered all his attention on his filly, feeling her out
with the sensitiveness of the true horseman. She moved al-
together too quietly, as if she cared nothing at all about the
coming race. Even when he lifted himself in the irons and put
her to a slow canter up the track at the end of the parade, she
showed no signs of eagerness. Halfway past the crowded stand,
he flicked her slightly with the bat and barely missed being
thrown head over heels as she downed her head and seemingly
tried to stand on it while kicking holes in the air.

A spectator leaned over the steel fence holding the crowd off
the track and shouted, "Ride 'em cowboy!" and another voice
cried shrilly, "You're in the wrong show, Ponce! This is a race
track, not an Arizona rodeo!"

Blushing furiously, Ponce pulled Desert Storm's head up
and put her into a reaching canter that carried him away from
the grandstand and the laughing crowd. Fifty yards onward,
the golden chestnut Trip-Up went past, moving with a light
grace that was sheer poetry.

In the backstretch, Ponce eased his mount to a walk and let
his thoughts touch briefly upon the events of the last three
months. In his mind's eye, he again saw the other tracks down
which he had taken the filly to victory after victory, the other
grandstands, and the other racers against which he had pitted
the flying black from the desert. He admitted without vanity

8 MOUNTAIN STALLION

that he and Desert Storm had become the most talked-of
figures in the sporting world since their initial appearance at
Santa Anita last February. With pardonable pride, he thought
of the talk going around the stables lately the talk about
Desert Storm's having been nominated for the honor of Horse
of the Year.

His resolve to retire her after the almost-fatal race at Santa
Anita in which she had hemorrhaged had been short-lived. His
friend, Gabe Stuart, had found himself with a thousand head
of cattle on his hands and very little to graze them on this last
spring. The sparse rains had not brought the grass up as usual.
The whole desert country was burning up for lack of water.
Gabe's cattle would die by the hundreds, unless something
were done quickly.

And so Ponce had brought the overnight sensation out of
her brief retirement and had shipped her east for the rich
races of spring and summer. The purses she had steadily won
were paying for the machinery and labor going into the making
of irrigation canals and ditches. Those ditches came from the
mountains down into the foothills and desert, and brought
water for Gabe's land. Very soon now he, Ponce, and his filly
could go back there and commence work on the second half
of The Dream, which was the forming of a racing stable.
There would be money enough to purchase several good brood-
mares also, if today's race turned out like the others. If ... if
Desert Storm would run . . .

Ponce pulled himself out of his daydream with a start as,
glancing ahead, he saw the other entries milling behind the
starting gate. With a frown for his carelessness, he shook
Desert Storm up and ran her down to take his place.

The starter was calling his name peevishly as he rushed up,
ordering him to take his filly in immediately. The narrow gate
snapped shut behind him. There were a few moments, then,
in which he could collect his scattered wits and set himself, as
the others were led into their proper gates. Even so, he had

RETURN TO GLORY 9

barely enough time to note again that Desert Storm was un-
naturally quiet and to worry about it before the deafening
jangle of the bell shattered the stillness, and the gates crashed
open.

"THEY'RE OFF/"

For the hundredth part of a second, nine gleaming bodies
lifted and hung suspended in the open gates. The line broke as
they came down and rushed for the turn in a scrambling wedge.
The roar of the crowd was beaten down by the thundering
hooves, the popping whips and the shrill cries of the riders, as
nine of the world's fastest Thoroughbreds struggled to take
the lead in the rich Arlington Special at Chicago. There was
one mile and one half to go. At the end of that gruelling dis-
tance, $100,000 waited to be claimed by the winner.

At the opening of the stretch, a long golden form flashed
out ahead of the close-pressed mass and started to open a lead
that grew unbelievably. The fast-breaking Trip-Up was run-
ning off with the race before it had gotten well under way.

Desert Storm had broken fast; but not as fast as some. Com-
ing off the turn, she was running in sixth place. She moved
easily; but without force or fire, and Ponce realized before
she had taken a dozen strides that it would not be necessary
to restrain her at all. She was sided by two horses; but not
closely pressed or hindered in any way. When those two forged
ahead, Ponce signaled for more speed, but Desert Storm did
not respond. Another horse, moving out suddenly under whip
and heel, passed her. Ponce glanced back and tried to tell him-
self he was dreaming when he saw the track empty behind
him. Desert Storm was tailing the field!

He settled lower over the pounding withers. For another
eighth he waited for the well-known surge of power to be un-
leashed beneath him. Twice he shook the reins urgently, twice
he called sharply into .the pointed ears, and twice he glanced
ahead and saw the field drawing farther and farther away.
With growing alarm, he drove his heels hard against the steel-

10 MOUNTAIN STALLION

like ribs, and in the turn the sluggish filly made a half -hearted
sprint that moved her up to the lagging horses in the rear of
the field. There she settled; but only for an instant. As she
straightened well down the backstretch, the whip slapped
sharply against her rump, and she commenced to run with
something of her old flashing speed.

Feeling her going, Ponce once again began to hope; but
when he had her even with the front-running colts, she sud-
denly slowed her speed and paced them. She was on the out-
side, which meant that she would be forced to cover more
ground in the turn, unless she could get out in front of the
leaders and take the rail position.

A quick glance showed Ponce a frightening picture up
ahead. The golden Trip-Up was streaking along like a beam
of light through darkness under the pressure of his rider. He
would be into the far turn in fleeting seconds. Ponce saw the
cream-colored tail streaming out like a banner in the wind.
From the way it remained straight, without any betraying cir-
cular lashing motion, it was apparent that Trip-Up still had
plenty in reserve. Gil Dreen had been right when he had said
the chestnut was fast and good for the mile and a half. He
still maintained a six-length lead over the others.

Ponce threw the reins away* at the mile post. And for the
first time he began to use the whip with methodical intent,
knowing the blows would insult the sensitive filly beyond en-
durance, even though they produced no real pain. The looped
leather popped on her rump like a gunshot, and she leveled
out in a furious drive that left Ponce gasping for breath. But
even as she moved out like a thunderbolt, a dark horse with a
green hood over its blazed face moved with her.

For a moment Ponce was too concerned with getting Desert
Storm in hand to notice anything else; but as he pulled her
toward the inside rail, in preparation for the turn, he became

* An expression meaning to relax the grip on the reins so that the horse is
running freely, without any restraint.

RETURN TO GLORY

11

aware of that other horse. It was between him and the rail, and
it was running at Desert Storm's exact speed, making it im-
possible for her to cut in. Like perfectly timed machines the
pair took the turn. As always, Desert Storm lugged out badly,
falling a length off the pace. It was the one fault she had, and,
apparently, the one no amount of skillful riding and handling
could correct. When the track straightened, she was in the
exact center of it, a length and a half behind the driving brown.
It was then that Ponce saw the Number Two on the white
racing pad. It was then that he realized who had come up to
challenge Desert Storm.

Trafalgar!

Down the endless sweep of track the rawboned giant from
England was rocketing in a murderous drive to catch the still
strong-running Trip-Up. And with fear and uncertainty tearing
at him with icy hands, Ponce flung Desert Storm after him.
When the quarter pole flashed by he shook his head savagely.
The race was not finished yet!

12 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"All right/' he screamed into Desert Storm's flattened ears.
"Get him! Now/"

He uncocked his whip again. It played a rapid tattoo about
the sweating black shoulder, flank and rump, and Ponce
reached up to snap his goggles down over his eyes as wind tears
blinded him. Gauging the distance yet to be run, he dared
not risk moving the filly in toward the rail. Trip-Up was less
than two lengths in the lead now. He was running gamely
under the whip; but foot by foot the ground was being cut out
from under him by the two rear-runners who had come up to
press him in the final sprint. Fifty yards beyond the quarter
they caught him and took the lead.

And now it was Desert Storm and Trafalgar!

The filly had moved up to side the colt at the opening of
the stretch, when Ponce had urged her; but she could not open
up so much as an inch of daylight. Ponce glanced aside and
saw Bob Willis measuring him and Desert Storm. Then the
veteran jockey faced front and took to the whip with renewed
vigor. Under that pressure, Trafalgar fled toward the finish
line like an enraged stag seeking refuge from the hounds.

He went up, up. He was going on when Ponce seemingly
went crazy. In the packed grandstand, the thousands of on-
lookers fell silent at sight of a rider lifting his mount and
hurling it toward the wire with hands, feet and bat.

Frightened half out of her wits by her rider's unusual be-
havior, Desert Storm sought to run out from under him. She
settled still lower, long legs blurring above the track, and all
the power in her great body went into the battle to catch the
English champion before he reached the wire. She could not
do it. Over track and field a great moaning sigh went up as,
watching the grim struggle below them, the spectators realized
that the flying filly from the desert had met her match at long
last

A slight ridge in the track caused Trafalgar to waver to the
right. It cost him precious inches. It cost him his lead. For

RETURN TO GLORY 13

even as he veered, Desert Storm summoned up the last vestige
of strength in her and forged ahead to side him again. In an
agony of determination, the two streaked for the wire, so close
together their jockeys* feet touched.

The giant filly was running as if every stride would be her
last; but she would not go down. She staved off Trafalgar's
challenge and dueled with him down the last heartbreaking
yards. Only once before had she been challenged as she was
now being challenged. Only once before had defeat stared her
in the face. Then she had struck out at it and brushed it aside.
But now?

In a blinding sprint, she took the lead. She went up a quarter
length, a half length. And she was going on with deadly in-
tent as the pair flashed under the wire.

The crowd went wild. They were on their feet, screaming,
whistling and stamping. They kept it up all the while Ponce
and Desert Storm, shaken and drenched with sweat, faced the
battery of cameras in the Winner's Circle.

Sitting the quivering, weaving filly, Ponce smiled obediently
when the photographers asked him to. He pretended not to
hear the questions flung at him from all sides, questions about
his future plans for Desert Storm. It would do no good at all,
he knew, to tell them the truth just now. Soon enough they
would find out what he was going to do. And so he went on
smiling and nodding, and he did not have to pretend to be
happy.

Today Desert Storm had won over $100,000. It was enough.

Voice from the Crrave

FOUR days after Desert Storm triumphed over Trafalgar
in the Arlington Special, Gil Dreen's black Lincoln swept
around a mesa and bore down on the narrow lane which cut
away from the desert road. At the end of the lane, clearly seen
in the distance, Gabe Stuart's white adobe ranch house sat
atop its knoll.

From the moment they rounded the mesa, Ponce began to
sit straighter and farther forward on the seat. His head turned
constantly and his eyes widened in wonder at what he saw.
Had it not been for the many well-known landmarks, he would
have thought he was in an utterly unfamiliar part of the
country. Where before the desert had reached, sear and brown,
from the foothills in the north farther than the eye could see
to the south, there was now a blanket of bright green. All over
that cool blanket were glowing spots of color. Even the sage's
lavender-gray tone had taken on a deeper, richer hue.

Ponce knew what water could do to the thirsty soil of the
desert. A year ago, Gabe Stuart had sold the mesa section to
David Forrest. In a month's time, water from the lake below
the mesa had been released through ditches, and the section
had been transformed into a green paradise.

Now Desert Storm's winnings had actually provided the

14

VOICE FROM THE GRAVE

15

means whereby Gabe Stuart was enabled to hire irrigation
units to come out from Tucson and dig a canal from Ocatillo
River, down through his holdings. The result paralleled that
of the Forrest irrigation system, but on a far bigger scale.

From the main canal, countless smaller ditches had been cut
along the slopes of ridges lower down, and the water, spilling
across the gently tilted land, had drawn greenness over the
sandy soil. Desert flowers of numberless species roused to new
life and lived on in surprise at this miracle. Some of them for-
got their proper seasons and insisted on blooming continually.

Gil Dreen turned off the road, steered the Lincoln care-
fully along the narrow lane and slowed before the house. He
chuckled at the sight of the lone figure rising slowly from the
rawhide-bound rocker on the front porch. Ponce flung the car
door open and leaped out, his face glowing with pleasure as
Gabe Stuart continued to stand on the porch and stare un-
believingly at his visitors.

"We are home, Mr. Gabe!"

"Huh?"

The elderly rancher seemed unable to believe his eyes. For
a long moment he stared, then gave voice to a yell that startled
the chickens in their coop behind the house.

16 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"Thunder an' lightening" he roared, "Where in tarnation
did you all come from all of a sudden?"

He grabbed up the saddle he had been working on, as if not
knowing what else to do, dropped it and jumped off the porch
to meet Ponce. His big arms went around the youth's shoulders
and he dragged the boy about the yard in an awkward, bear-
like dance, the while he continued to howl like a wounded
desert wolf. They reeled into the side of the car and halted,
panting for breath.

"Last I heard of you all and Desert Storm, you was jest
about played out after snitchin' the purse from under old
Trafalgar's nose in Chicago." He paused, his gaze going to the
new van behind the Lincoln. Quickly he looked into Ponce's
eyes again. "Nothings wrong with the filly, is there, son? That
race didn't hurt her, did it?"

Ponce shook his head, knowing that the rancher's concern
was real. "Nothing is wrong with her," he said. "It is only
that there is more than enough money now to pay for all this
irrigation work you have had done, and enough to get some
good brood mares. So we came home."

It was the truth, Gabe Stuart knew, so far as it went; but it
did not go far enough. "I reckon I know another pretty good
reason why you come back, son," he said quietly.

"But, I told you . . ." Ponce began.

"An' I heard the race on the radio," Gabe cut in. "The an-
nouncer said, good and clear, Tonce has taken the whip to
Desert Storm.' " He paused, then finished gently, "You're not
in the habit of doin' that."

Ponce glanced away. "The whip cannot hurt her," he said.
"She was not trying very hard, so I struck her. It made her
angry and she ran, then."

"Sure," Gabe murmured, "sure, I know. But I got a sus-
picion that you sort of figured it was time to give her a mite of
rest, if it took a whip to make her mind her business."

"Even so," Ponce replied in vast relief at the other's under-

VOICE FROM THE GRAVE 17

standing. "Even though the whip does not hurt her, I do not
like to use it." He hesitated, debating whether to make a con-
fession, and decided to speak honestly. "Even if it had hurt a
little, I think I would have used it on her, Mr. Gabe. She was
not really trying, and I knew all the time that she could out-
run that Trafalgar. If I had not been so sure, I would not have
pushed her/'

Gabe Stuart closed one eye in a wink. "That's all I wanted
to know, son," he said with a chuckle. "Now let's get her out
of that fancy carriage. I'm hankerin' to have a good look at
her."

Gil Dreen drove on to the stable, parked and came around
to unlock the rear doors of the van. "I was just about to take
this outfit, filly and all, on to Shady Mesa with me," he de-
clared, extending a hand and grasping Gabe Stuart's leathery
palm.

Gabe nudged Ponce. "Go on, son," he urged. "Bring her out.
From all Fve read and heard about her in the last three
months, I reckon on seein' her grown to about forty hands and
sportin* a pair of wings!"

Ponce stepped into the van and unchained the restless filly.
"Here she comes!" he called. "Watch out behind!"

The words were followed immediately by violent action, as
Desert Storm erupted through the narrow opening, struck the
sand and whirled to bolt halfway across the yard. She skidded
to a halt, pivoted and blew lustily through flaring nostrils.
Then she bent her knees, dropped to the sand and rolled and
flopped about, as if trying to bury herself in the warm earth.

Gabe regarded her with faint alarm. "Does she always go
crazy like that?"

Both Gil and Ponce were laughing heartily as they watched
the big racer squirm and grunt at her dirt bath. "Always,"
answered Gil. "Makes no fuss about getting in; but once those
doors open, she comes out like she was running the Kentucky
Derby in reverse."

18 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Ponce said gravely, "I think she always remembers that
other trailer from which there was no escape."

Both men nodded soberly. "Reckon that's it," Gabe agreed.
He watched Desert Storm place her front feet firmly under
her and lunge up, to stand and shake herself violently. When
she moved toward them, he said, "She's thinner and harder
than she was, I'd say. Looks like she was made of steel and
elastic."

"Perfect condition," Gil stated proudly. "With very little
work, she could be put on any track any time. She's one of
those rare animals that thrives on hard work."

As if to show she knew she was the subject of conversation,
Desert Storm arched her neck, lifted her head higher and
posed before them for a moment. Then she reared and lunged
past them, through the open gate of her paddock, there to spin
about and race down its length.

Gil Dreen turned quickly and went to unhitch the trailer
from his car. Climbing in behind the wheel, he said cheerfully,
"I called my wife from Tucson and told her Fd be home for
supper. If I don't get a move on, I'll hear about it for the next
six months!" He pressed the starter and shifted gears, then
spoke to Ponce. "Any time you want to take to the tracks again,
son, just let me know. I can tell you right now that Mr. Forrest
is expecting you to go to Santa Anita with us again this Jan-
uary, so don't let Desert Storm fall into one of these irrigation
ditches!"

While the old rancher and the Apache boy smiled, he re-
leased the clutch and sped away across the yard. Moments
later, a thick cloud of dust completely hid the Lincoln from
view. When the cloud had disappeared in the distance, where
Shady Mesa loomed like a gigantic purple shadow in the
evening sky, Ponce and Gabe turned toward the house.

While they ate supper, and afterwards did the dishes, the
rancher plied Ponce with countless questions about the races
the boy had won on the world-famous Desert Storm. Ponce

VOICE FROM THE GRAVE 19

described each of them in detail, knowing that his old friend's
interest in himself and the filly was equal to his own. For three
hours they sat on the back porch and talked of all that had
happened in the recent past. At last Gabe rose and stretched.

"It's way past my bedtime, son/' he said between yawns.
"Best we get some sleep and save some of this talk for another
time, eh?"

Ponce jumped to his feet and started around the end of the
house, toward his lean-to in the rear. At the corner he halted
and turned to face the man who had become more than a
friend to him. He said softly, "It is good to be home again, Mr.
Gabe/' and slipped from sight.

Some time between midnight and first dawn, Ponce found
himself sitting bolt upright on the narrow cot in the lean-to.
An instant before he had been sleeping soundly. Now he was
wide awake, his every sense keyed to the night around him.
One by one he singled out the sounds coming in through the
open door the dull thud of Desert Storm's hoofs in the sand
as the filly paced up and down the length of her paddock in
unfamiliar loneliness, the whisper of a bat's wings disturbing
the cool air close to the house, the wild, lost cry of a coyote
on some wind-swept ridge and the closer, louder call of an owl.

It was this last that had jerked him up from deep sleep, and
he was off the bed and outside before he realized it. He stood
in the faint light shed by the waning moon and stars and
turned his head slowly back and forth, trying to pick up the
sound again. The seconds ticked slowly past as he waited. And
then it came once more, from somewhere over beyond the
stable that sat between the house and barn. Before the call had
ceased, Ponce was racing across the yard. He rounded the end
of the stable, ran on across the stretch of moonlight and slid
to a stop a dozen paces short of an old gray pony that stood all
alone in the night.

Peering into the shadows rimming the walls of the stable
and barn and the clumps of sage nearby, Ponce could see no

20

MOUNTAIN STALLION

sign of any human being. And then the old gray pony switched
its tail and stamped, and a dry, gutteral voice said from the ani-
mal's black shadow, "Is it the way of the Apache to rush into
the night without weapons to fight one who might be an
enemy?" .,

The black shadow changed shape, and a strange figure
stepped into view at the pony's head. Moonlight made a silver
halo around the lowered head, and a stray breath of air whirled
across the knoll and lifted the tattered blanket so that the
ancient figure took on the aspect of some earth-bound bird
with ragged wings flapping.

Ponce was still breathing quickly from his run. He waited
until The Old Apache came away from the pony and stopped
within reach of him before replying, then said evenly, "When
the call came a second time, I knew The Great Joto had come.
That is why I carried no weapon, my father."

The withered hands came out from under the ragged blan-

VOICE FROM THE GRAVE 21

ket, and the old one took another step forward. He placed his
right hand on the boy's head and intoned the Apache greeting.

"Do you walk in beauty, my son?"

"I walk in beauty, my father/' Ponce answered quietly.

"Has there been pain and ugliness in your heart, my son?"

"There has been no pain nor ugliness in my heart, my
father," Ponce murmured.

"En/'u," the deep voice said. "It is well."

The age-old greeting ritual over, the two shook hands. Ponce
looked into the sun-blackened face of this ancient man who
had once been one of the greatest warriors of the Mimbreno
Apache tribe and could see no sign of change. After so many
years have written their stories upon a countenance, there is
no room left for more writing. This was the way it was with
Joto. No one of his people knew his real age. It was laughingly
said of him that he was the first man in the world and that it
was he who had told Yosen, the giver of life, exactly how to
fashion the first Apache out of clay. When Yosen had done
his bidding, the tale went, Joto was so well pleased with the
result that he announced then and there, "He is so fine that I
too will be an Apache," and so those two were the first Apaches
in the world

Thinking of the humorous myth, Ponce half smiled in the
moonlight, and his eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. "How
many seasons have you seen, my father?" he asked.

"Too many!" The Old Apache snapped. Immediately he
knew that the youth was speaking in jest, and his own deep-set
eyes sparkled. He cupped his hands, as though holding a little
ball. "When the world was this big, I held it like this! Now you
know what no one else has ever learned, the age of Joto." His
wrinkled lips parted to disclose toothless gums in a grimace
that passed for a smile with him, and his shoulders jiggled
faintly with his silent laughter. "Sit down," he ordered ab-
ruptly.

Ponce sank to the sand, his legs crossed under him, and

22 MOUNTAIN STALLION

The Old Apache squatted down facing him. For a moment
neither spoke; then Joto announced matter-of-factly, "I have
dreamed a dream."

Ponce bit back an exclamation of disappointment in the
nick of time. Immediately he felt ashamed of his reaction,
knowing Joto had not come here in the small hours of the
night to recount some idle sleep-picture. Speaking carefully,
in the formal dialect of the council, he asked, "Was it a good
thing you saw, my father?"

The Old Apache moved his head slowly from side to side,
and the network of deep wrinkles formed black lines on his
forehead as he frowned. "I know not," he muttered. "But this
I know, my son; you and I will start out on a journey of two
days' length when the sun rises above the world."
"A journey?" Ponce echoed. "Where?"
The other lifted a long, reed-like arm and pointed to the
northwest. "There," he replied. "Along the mountains we will
ride, then turn into them. Somewhere up there, we will stop.
I know not where; but I know the way. And when we are
come to the place, I will know it."

A chill ran down Ponce's spine, and he shivered. He well
knew that The Old Apache did not do things out of a sense
of sheer adventure. That there was some hidden purpose to
the journey, he did not for an instant doubt. He asked slowly,
"How came this dream to you, my father?"

In the fading light of the moon, The Old Apache's eyes
peered out from their deep sockets, and his voice took on a
low, wondering tone.

"Slowly, it came," he replied. "Four days ago there was
silence all around me. The birds sang; but there was no sound.
I threw a rock high into the air; but it made no noise when it
struck the ground. The stream rushed past my wickiiup in
silence, and though the trees bowed low before the wind, they
whispered not at all." He paused, his eyes glittering blackly.
"Believe you this?"

VOICE FROM THE GRAVE 23

"I believe it, my father/' Ponce whispered.

"Enju!" Joto grunted. For a moment, then, he paused to
draw the picture sharply through his mind again. "For these
four days I have eaten nothing. Yesterday, when the sun went
down, I lay down before my dwelling and stared straight into
the sky. How long I was there, I know not; but suddenly there
was movement in the ground beneath me, and a voice came
through the ground and into my ears. It said, 'Joto, my brother,
take the young man who is become as your son and go toward
the far hills. Ride without haste for two days. When the sun
rests on the crest of the mountains, stop on the rim of the
valley you will have found and wSit for the gift to appear
before you/'

The deep voice sank into silence, and Ponce crouched in
the grayness of first dawn and shivered. What wisdom lay
hidden in the shrunken form of this once-mighty warrior, no
one knew; but the legends about him were numerous and often
told by the wise men of the Mimbrenos. For himself, Ponce
could not doubt the hidden powers of Joto, because it was he
who had healed Desert Storm's shattered foreleg when every-
one else had said there was no hope of saving her. It was he
who had foretold the filly's greatness, and that in itself was
reason enough for Ponce's faith in him. After a long moment,
he asked in a hushed voice, "Know you the voice that spoke
to you, my father?"

The Old Apache nodded once. "I know; but I will not tell
you yet. But know you this: of all Apaches, the one who
spoke to me from the grave was the greatest, I think. I knew
him well, and I say his lips knew not the way of untruth. We
will do as he commanded me."

Ponce nodded. "So be it," he murmured.

The Old Apache rose to his feet and pulled the thin blanket
closer about his bony shoulders. "We will wake Mr. Gabe and
tell him. Come."

TL Gift

THROUGHOUT the day they traveled steadily along the
base of the Mogollons and at night made a dry camp in the
brooding stillness of the mountains. At noon on the second
day, The Old Apache left the desert and led the way into a
maze of canyons, ravines and upturned slabs of sandstone. It
was like passing from bright sunlight into the dimness of a
windowless house. The blinding sun no longer glared up from
the sand, but came sifting down through narrow, slit-like
openings far overhead. The intense heat fell away gradually as
the two horses climbed steadily upward.

On level ground, Desert Storm had refused to accommodate
her long strides to the short, choppy ones of the bony gray;
but as the going became increasingly steep and rough, she
settled to a walk.

For the most part, the journey had been made in silence.
The Old Apache seemed reluctant to talk, so Ponce held back
the many questions seething inside him. He could not ignore
one thing, however his stomach. Unaccustomed to going
long without regular intake, it had been rolling and growling
since noon of the first day. Now it felt like an empty furnace,
and at last he decided to speak frankly.

24

THE GIFT 25

"I have great hunger, my father/' he announced during a
halt to breathe the horses. "When do we eat?"

The other's quick anger surprised the young Indian. "Have
you gone so far from your people that you do not know their
ways at all?" Joto demanded. "It is a rule that one shall take
no food into his belly until a dream be finished." He saw the
look of hurt and surprise that ran across Ponce's face, and his
voice lost some of its harshness. "The dream will not be
finished until the sun goes out of the sky, my son. You must
hold your hunger from you until then."

"So be it," Ponce sighed, taking his belt up another notch.
"I will try." After a moment of silence, he added doubtfully,
"Even then, I do not see what we shall eat. We brought no
food."

The Old Apache tapped the unstrung bow dangling from
his shoulder and indicated the quiver of short arrows strapped
to the sheepskin pad of his saddle. "There are these," he said,
"and there are rabbits all over these mountains. Is it not good
enough?"

"It will be good, maybe," the youth replied with a grin and
nudged Desert Storm with his heel to move her out after the
pony. He studied his surroundings with growing interest.

The Mogollon mountain range sprawled across the face of
the country like a massive broken chunk of stone which the
ancient gods of the Apaches had piled up to form breastworks
during some world-shaking battle. Rugged and wild and fear-
some, they rolled their hills and tossed their ramparts toward
the intense blue sky. In the old days, they had been the favorite
hunting grounds of certain tribes of the region, and still later
they had provided a last refuge for the Desert People while
the White Man-Apache war raged. From a distance, they
looked barren and lifeless, and the casual tourist, passing
swiftly through the land, gave them no more than a brief,
uneasy glance. To Ponce's people they were old, well-known
friends, holding long, cool valleys within their forbidding

26 MOUNTAIN STALLION

walls. The Desert People knew where to find the rushing
streams of cool water, the deep, blue pools and the meadows
fragrant with grass and wild flowers. And the lonely, wild cry
of the wind sweeping across the towering crags was a never-
ending song of the land itself.

Ponce roused from his thoughts as the ground tilted steeply.
Glancing ahead, he saw The Old Apache become half hidden
in deep shadow as the gray plunged into a canyon whose walls
rose a hundred feet upward. At the top, these leaned inward
until the sky was but a thin blue streak. The horses' hoofs
struck echoes from the floor, echoes that bounced back and
forth and clattered on in magnified bursts of sound, far ahead.
After an hour of steady climbing, the canyon widened, and
the walls sank until they were mere banks. The Old Apache
reined abruptly to the left and put his pony to a steep climb
onto a long, flat bench.

Ponce followed, holding Desert Storm to a quick, scrambling
walk with difficulty. He gained the bench and looked up at
the sheer cliff overhanging the narrow ledge, then sent his
gaze to the left and gulped when he found himself looking into
a seemingly bottomless chasm. He could see no way off this
bench, and he called out, 'There is no trail, my father! See
how the cliff blocks the other end?"

His traveling companion gave no sign that he had heard;
but jogged steadily along the dangerous stretch of time-pol-
ished stone. He was a hundred feet distant as Ponce took an-
other uneasy look into the dark depths of the chasm. When
next he looked up, Joto had disappeared.

The youth pulled the filly to a halt. For a brief moment he
sat in the shadow of the cliff and peered through the gloom,
perplexed by the other's disappearance. Desert Storm was of a
more practical bent; also, she owned the inherited trait of all
horses, which was a violent dislike for being separated from
her own kind. Without hesitation, she trotted along the bench,
turned sharply where the wall showed a narrow slit and en-

THE GIFT 27

tered a cave-like passage. The walls here were so close that
Ponce's knees brushed against them, and when he threw back
his head and looked up, he could not see the sky. A hundred
feet onward, the light died completely, and Ponce shortened
his grip on the reins and rode warily, letting the filly make her
own way along the upward-sloping passage.

For a quarter mile the darkness held, then a tiny circle of
light glimmered far ahead. Coming at last into the open,
Ponce was tempted to shout in sheer relief; but he pressed his
lips together and cantered after The Old Apache, who was
now far ahead and urging his pony up a narrow trail that cut
along the perpendicular face of a yellow cliff. Arriving at the
foot of that cliff, Desert Storm hesitated, tossing her head; but
at a touch of Ponce's heels, she crouched and took to the
dangerous climb like a big cat. Pebbles and dirt, loosened by
her hoofs, flew out and showered down in thick bursts, strik-
ing up faint echoes on the floor far below.

For three more hours they climbed into the Mogollans,
working their way into rougher, wilder country, where birds
wheeled high overhead and where roaring streams crashed and
rolled thunder between the broken walls and cliffs. The air
grew thinner and colder, and the progress slowed as the strain
took its toll on the horses' strength. Surprisingly, The Old
Apache's pony proved far more adept at this kind of travel
than did Desert Storm. The bony animal appeared to be made
of steel and rawhide, and the breathing spells it required were
far fewer than those demanded by the powerful black. Yard
by yard, she was left behind, until Ponce could no longer see
Joto nor hear him.

Gaining the top of a cliff by means of a terrifyingly narrow
and steep trail, Ponce drew up to let Desert Storm catch her
wind. They were at the lower end of a narrow strip of sand.
On both sides, at the mile-distant end, towering walls enclosed
the lifeless spot. A dull roar beat at the young man's ears. At
first, he thought the altitude was responsible; but, looking

28 MOUNTAIN STALLION

toward the far wall, he spied a thick jet of water curving down-
ward from its summit, and, though he could not see the pool
at the base, he knew that the roar came from there.

Ten minutes later, he drew up at the edge of the foaming
pool into which the waterfall plunged with a noise like thun-
der. A fine spray settled over him and his mount, cooling and
refreshing them after the heat of the climb.

A careful survey of the surrounding walls disclosed no way
out; but since The Old Apache had obviously passed along
here and was now absent, Ponce reasoned that he had not
flown out and must, therefore, have ridden on. He studied the
damp ground for hoofprints. A moment later, he guided Desert
Storm along the pony's trail. He was intently watching the
ground, and so had no warning of the narrow gorge until dark-
ness engulfed him. He halted, looked back at the sunlit canyon,
then peered before him into the darkness. Another tunnel-like
opening led into the side of the wall. After a few moments'
hesitation, he urged Desert Storm ahead and felt her withers
lift sharply under him as the floor tilted steeply again.

The passageway seemed endless. Twice Ponce found it nec-
essary to halt the filly, when her breathing became labored.
During the second pause, he glanced at the luminous dial of
his wristwatch and saw that the hands indicated the hour of
six. Alarmed, he stared at them, knowing that sunset was less
than an hour away. The possibility of reaching a valley of any
kind before this time seemed remote indeed. Could it be that
The Old Apache had erred this one time?

He pushed the thought away and put Desert Storm into
motion once again. She scrambled upward, grunting and snort-
ing with the effort. When it seemed to the anxious boy that
the passageway would never end, a speck of blue sky glim-
mered far ahead. This time he did shout with relief, and the
noise of his voice crashed down about his ears like thunder.
Terrified, Desert Storm threw herself into a scrambling, jump-
ing run that took them out of the tunnel in a clattering rush.

THE GIFT 29

The coolness of this high region was like a morning breeze.
Both boy and horse breathed quickly and deeply of the pine-
scented air, then the breath stopped in Ponce's throat as he
took in the magnificent scene before him.

Miraculously, the broken country had fallen away behind
them. There was a long mountain plain to the north. En-
circling mountains were distant, low purple lines, and the plain
itself lay like an accidentally-placed desert on all sides. A mile
away, a thin finger of stone rose a hundred feet above the
grassy floor; yet, upon closer inspection, it proved to be no
single mass of rock at all, but a narrow mesa. Less than a mile
in width, it stretched along the floor of this mountain desert,
extending until the shadow along its eastern side sank to the
thinnest of pencil lines in the blue haze of late afternoon.

Sitting there staring, Ponce saw a small, light-colored object
moving up along the face of stone at a sharp angle. He jumped
Desert Storm into a sudden run, excitement racing through
him. With that excitement, there was a feeling of shame also,
because he had doubted that the promised valley would ap-
pear before the sinking of the sun this day. He reached the
foot of the mesa and looked up to see The Old Apache disap-
pearing over the rim. Desert Storm took the perilous incline
like a mountain goat. Minutes later, they reached the rim, and
the boy saw Joto sitting his sweat-drenched pony less than ten
feet away.

"You go too swiftly, my . . ." Ponce began, but he left the
sentence uncompleted as he came alongside the other and
glanced down.

The narrow ledge on which they sat was actually the top
of a stone wall enclosing a valley some ten miles long and less
than a mile wide. Directly below, the wall dropped two hun-
dred feet to the level, grassy floor. Rimming the narrow valley,
like sentinels at attention, were thick mountain pines. Their
dark green branches contrasted sharply with the lighter green
of the tall grass which covered the earth like a soft blanket.

30 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Far to the north, the waning sunlight glinted on water. It was
impossible to determine the exact size of the lake; but it ap-
peared to lie almost in the middle of the valley. Extending
from wall to wall, it acted as a line which cut the steep-walled
retreat into two parts.

For long minutes Ponce sat there, taking in the scene, find-
ing it almost impossible to accept, even with all of it so clear
before him. He remembered the doubt that had come to him
earlier in the day.

"You were right, my father/' he said quietly. "Only I ..."

"Doubted."

The Old Apache turned knowing eyes on him. A half smile
changed his withered face, and he extended a clawlike hand
to lay it on Ponce's shoulder. "Let it not trouble you, my son,"
he said. "With age comes faith, and you are still very young.
One day you will learn to believe in those things your eyes
cannot see."

He turned his gaze westward, and the smile died from his
face. He looked all around, as if searching for something he
had known would be here. Again he looked westward, a frown
pulling his whitened brows low over his deep-set eyes. A nar-
row patch of crimson lay between the bottom edge of the sun
and the highest peak of the Mogollans. He said in a vaguely
irritated voice, "The time draws near."

Ponce looked at the thinning strip of sky. Just as the sun
touched that distant peak, he glanced at Joto and caught his
breath quickly, a chill rushing over him.

The Old Apache sat stiffly in his ragged saddle, his face
lifted to the darkening sky. Suddenly he raised his arms and
spread them wide, so that the blanket slipped off his shoulders.
He said in a louder voice, "The time draws near!" A moment
later, he cried out sharply, as if in pain, "My brother! The
time is now! Why do you not come to me?"

Never before had Ponce seen The Great Joto show such
emotion. He could not tear his eyes away from the contorted

THE GIFT 31

features. The usually blank-faced warrior was suffering from
some inner torment that changed his whole being and made
him for an instant like a lost child. Without understanding
what was happening, Ponce knew that it had to do with Joto's
voice from the grave. He thought blindly, it must happen
quickly, or his faith mil be destroyed!

The Old Apache's voice cut the air like a striking hand.

"Quickly! Get you into those trees!"

Ponce whirled Desert Storm toward a clump of pines fifty
feet away, on a broad expanse of the ledge, The Old Apache
following. They dodged around a ragged boulder and were in
the trees. Then Desert Storm was rearing in fright as Joto
leaped to the ground and grabbed her bridle.

"Hold her!" he commanded in a whisper. "Hold her! There
must be no sound!"

The boy slid to the ground, took a short grip on the reins
and drew the frightened filly close. Then he saw Joto crouch-
ing behind the big rock, one hand clamped over the pony's
muzzle. He followed the other's example, drawing Desert
Storm in behind the rock and craning his neck around an out-
cropping to see what had caused this wild flurry. It was less
than a minute before the sound of someone climbing the trail
to the ledge reached his ears.

He had seen no path leading into the valley; but the sounds
were coming from the inside wall. They came closer, grew
louder, and then Ponce bit his lips until he tasted blood as a
gray stallion came into view before him.

One moment there was nothing visible but the expanse of
purple evening sky. Then, the stallion was standing like a
gigantic statue between Ponce and that sky.

There was something terrifying in the way he stood there,
with the dying sun drenching his great body in bloody light.
He faced south, his finely chiseled head upflung on its massive
neck. Wind, streaming from the north, caught the heavy silver
mane and tail and swept them in a wildly tossing cascade

32 MOUNTAIN STALLION

along the heaving side and over the dark eyes. Ponce took the
stallion's measurements with knowing glance and realized that
he stood well over seventeen hands high.

At first he looked black; but in the red light that poured
over the mountain plain, it was difficult to determine his exact
coloring. Then, the big body moved and stood quartering
toward the stone that hid the two Indians, and Ponce saw
that the stallion was a dark gray, with black stockings that
gradually faded and changed into countless perfect dapples
along the bulging shoulders and hind quarters.

Every line and curve of the towering form bespoke breeding
of the highest order. No wild mustang grew to such size and
flawless conformation. No impure blood could produce legs
like slender bands of steel such as the gray possessed. Without
scar or blemish, he poised there, outlined against the sky, like
some forbidding giant from another world. And his wildness
hovered over him and filled the air about him like a heavy,
frightening scent.

For a full minute he remained in the fading light, then
moved, turning on the ledge to face into the wind. He swung
his head slowly from side to side, vaguely disturbed by some-
thing he sensed but could not identify. The wind was against
him, carrying no hint of danger; still, he keened the air, trying
to sift some message from it. During one circling movement of
his head, he faced the grove of pines and the large rock, and
for a paralyzing moment Ponce stared into the dark, glittering
eyes. It seemed impossible that those eyes could fail to pene-
trate the shadows, and the boy waited in an agony of sus-
pense for some deadly movement of that proud being. But
after a moment, the head swung back, pointing upwind again.

Ponce was trembling from head to feet Perspiration poured
from his body. He closed his eyes and clamped his jaws hard
in an effort to steady his nerves. When he looked up again,
the stallion was gone.

THE GIFT 33

He rose and was starting around the rock when The Old
Apache's hand gripped his arm and stopped him.

"Wait! He must not hear you nor see you!"

Ponce settled back. The minutes crawled by. The sounds
made by the descending stallion faded gradually, then ceased
altogether. When the silence was complete, Ponce left the
protection of the boulder and led Desert Storm to the spot
the stallion had occupied. Looking down, he saw the narrow
trail that led to the valley. Sweeping the grassy plain below,
he could see no sign of any living creature. Then, a band of
eight horses trotted out of the pines fringing the left wall and
started up the valley. An instant later, a gray form flitted into
view, and Ponce recognized the gigantic stallion. Like a
shadow, it rushed along the rear of the little band, moving
effortlessly after them as they broke into headlong flight.

The reins were torn from Ponce's hand by Desert Storm's
sudden lunge. He whirled and, with The Old Apache's aid,
succeeded in recapturing her and dragging her back from the
narrow trail.

"She would follow the gray one/' Joto said, chuckling drily.

He stroked the filly's wet neck. Suddenly he ceased, turned
to the north and became utterly motionless. After several
minutes, he lifted his arms as before and began to speak in a
strange, sing-song tone.

"My brother, whose name must not be spoken as your name,
I heard your voice and obeyed, and I thank you for the gift
which you have placed in the hands of this youth who is as
my own son. In your gift your spirit lives, and so it shall be
that your name shall live again. On that day when you and I
stood where now I stand, you said that you would return. For
the truth that was ever in you, I give you thanks, even as I give
you thanks for your gift, the stallion which shall bear the name
Victoria"

The last word was uttered in a wildly piercing tone. It
seemed to hang in the air above the valley, like an invisible

34 MOUNTAIN STALLION

bird with strongly beating wings. Then it ran down the breeze
and was lost in the deepening night.

"Victorio." Ponce repeated the name in a hushed voice,
rolling the syllables on his tongue, as if savoring them. "It
means The Victorious One, does it not?"

"Even so."

"And it is the name of he whose voice came to you in the
night, is it not?"

"Even so," Joto murmured again. "The greatest warrior of
the Apache nation. He was never defeated." His voice took on
a deeper, stronger timbre. "I rode with him to war many times.
He was the greatest, my son."

"I have heard stories of his victories, and the terrible one
of his death. Because of him, the name Apache lives on."
Ponce hesitated, then went on more slowly. "I do not under-
stand one thing, my father."

"Say that thing."

"You said to the spirit of that warrior that the stallion is in
my hands."

Joto nodded slowly, his white hair faintly shining in the
gloom. "Even so. Time is a little thing that one may hold in
one's hand, know you. I see what I see."

"But I do not."

"There is a saying among our people," Joto stated. "When
a man looks only with his eyes, all trails lead into the middle
of nowhere." He stopped, watching Ponce closely, then said
more sternly, "Think on that, my son."

"And so I will, my father."

On the point of going to his pony, Joto hesitated, then
turned and spoke more gently. "We have another saying.
'To bring a wall to the ground, one has but to find one cer-
tain stone/ Think on that, too, my son."

JLJie JxLustaheros

AT THE foot of the trail outside the stone-walled valley
they sat in the light of the small fire and devoured the remains
of the big jackrabbit which Joto had snared. It had been
roasted over the coals without salt or any other seasoning.
Still, Ponce thought that he had never tasted anything half
so good.

Beyond the firelight, Desert Storm and the old pony moved
through the sage, taking short, broken steps because of their
hobbles as they grazed on the sun-cured grass. With good
forage for the animals and with the small pool of icy water
that bubbled up at the foot of the cliff, this provided an ideal
camping site. The scent of pine and juniper and sage was
heavy in the night wind which boomed down across the
mountain plain. Now that he had eaten his fill, Ponce could
have lain back and fallen asleep . . . almost. All too many
questions clamored for utterance, however, for him to relax
now.

For the past hour he had been questioning The Old Apache
about ways and means of capturing wild horses; but the
answers had been extremely brief. Sometimes they had been
mere grunts. Sometimes they did not come at all.

Joto sat hunched over, staring into the flickering fire, his

35

36 MOUNTAIN STALLION

brows drawn to a sharp point above his nose. He had been
that way for a long time, and Ponce dared not break in upon
his thoughts. When Joto was thinking, it was best to let him
go on thinking.

"It is impossible to construct a trap such as many wild
horse hunters use/ 7 he stated suddenly. "In the first place, that
Victorio would watch everything that went on, and he would
probably tear the trap down as fast as it was built. In the
second place, he would never be fool enough to walk into a
trap, however carefully the entrance was concealed/' He shook
his head. "No, a trap is not to be thought of."

Ponce remembered the lake lying in the center of the
valley. "If we could force him into the water, we could make
him swim until he was too tired to run, maybe."

The Old Apache's reply to that was a loud snort of con-
tempt. "I would hate to see you try to get close to that gray
devil in the water," he said. "He would kill you before you
could lift a hand."

Ponce rose, completely silenced, and went into the darkness
for more sage twigs to add to the fire. When he returned,
Joto was sitting up straight and staring intently at the blank
mesa wall before him. "Have you ever heard of a people known
as Los Mustaneros?" he asked, and when Ponce shook his
head, he motioned him to the ground.

"Long ago, before you were born," he began in the peculiarly
musical cadence of the experienced story-teller, "there were
great herds of wild horses all over the land. They were called
mustangs. For many years they had run free and grown in
numbers. It was seen by the White Man who came into the
land that they were swiftly becoming too numerous, and so
they were killed by the hundreds. So many were killed, in fact,
that it was not long before only a few herds remained. These
fled far to the south, into the region now known as Southern
Arizona, New Mexico and Texas. These remaining mustangs
had become wise in the ways of avoiding man. They were the

THE MUSTANEROS 37

strongest and the swiftest of all. That was why they were still
alive and free. It was very hard to catch them."

He paused, having set the stage for the picture he would
now draw before his listener's eyes. Ponce had never heard
him speak so before. He was completely fascinated by the
ancient warrior's gift of words. His eyes were fixed on the
dark features that seemed chiseled from stone in the firelight.
Knowing full well that Joto had some deep and clear purpose
in telling him this story, he waited.

"Now, the mustaneros were people from Mexico who went
about the land in small groups which often consisted of but
one family of five or eight souls. They were not very good
fighters, these mustaneros; but they had a way with horses
like no one I have ever known. They lived in ragged tents or
brush wickiiups, and they made their living by catching the
wild mustangs and selling them to the great rancheros in
Mexico. Always they had one very swift horse that was
trained to do a very special thing. And always there was one
member of the family who was trained for this same special
thing. He must be very slight, a very good rider and very
brave. Sometimes the special mustanero was a girl-child. In-
deed, some of the finest were girl-children.

"These families would find a herd of wild horses and follow
them until they learned all the habits and feeding places of
the band, then they would proceed to trap them. Usually, the
leader and a few of the wisest and swiftest mares would escape
capture, and it was then the mustaneros performed the deed
which gave them their name.

"The fine, strong racer was led out and the young boy or
girl who was to do the fearful deed was placed upon the racer
and sent to where the leader of the wild band was known to be.
All the family rode out to watch/'

Again The Old Apache paused, taking a moment to picture
the whole thing clearly in his mind's eye. He said then, "One
such race I remember well. I saw many; but I remember this

38 MOUNTAIN STALLION

one best, because the rider was a girl-child of only twelve
summers. She came from a family in which only the women
had been mustaneras, and her mother, growing too heavy to
ride the racers, had taught her the art. I will tell you how it
went that day/'

"The young girl-child waited inside the brush dwelling
until her father called to her. When she came out, she carried
in her hand a length of rawhide reata. Her father picked her
up and placed her astride a tall roan mare that wore neither
bridle nor saddle. With her knees, the girl-child turned the
mare and guided her up a long, flat plain lying between steep
walls of stone. No one told her what to do, and no one went
with her. She was but twelve summers in the world, mind
you, and a girl-child.

"We all rode to the edge of the plain to watch. After a long
time, we saw a dust cloud sweeping down the valley, and then
we saw five horses running before that cloud. Of the girl-child
and the roan mare there was no sign. The five wild ones
came on until they were halfway down the valley. They were
fast, and they ran all in a straight line, as though racing for
some fine prize.

"Suddenly, the roan mare appeared from beneath the cloud
of dust, running like no horse I had ever seen before.

"She came steadily up to the five wild ones, and when they
did not make room for her in their line, she bit one of them
on the rump. It was clear to us, then, that the leader, a great
sorrel stallion, had not been running his swiftest, for when the
mare's teeth raked his rump, he darted out in front of the
others, like a hunting arrow speeding from the bow. He left
them quickly behind; but he did not leave the roan mare.
He sank so low to the ground that his belly seemed to touch
it, and his long legs moved so swiftly that we could not see
them. Still, he could not outrun the mare. But she could
not catch him either ... we thought

"I did not see the girl-child until the mare bit the stallion.

THE MUSTANEROS 39

She was curled up like a ball, high on the big mare's shoulders,
and she was almost hidden in the mare's long mane. When
it seemed the mare could not outrun the stallion, I saw the
girl-child move one hand very gently up along the straining
neck. It was a signal. The mare seemed suddenly to fly over
the ground, and before the heart could beat swiftly ten times,
she and the stallion were running side by side. It was at this
moment I heard myself shouting like an excited boy.

"When the mare had matched her stride perfectly to that
of the mighty stallion, the girl-child doubled a leg under her,
leaned out to grasp a handful of the sorrel's mane and pushed
herself over onto the stallion's back.

"For a while the two horses raced on, as if tied together;
then the mare veered away and ran back toward the camp,
while the stallion flew on with the girl-child clinging to his
back. He was but a tiny speck far down the plain, and I feared
for the girl-child's life. And then I saw the sorrel commence
to turn in a wide circle at the valley's far end. He was still
running; but not so swiftly. After a long, long time, he came
back up the valley, trotting slowly, his head almost touching
the ground. He came closer, and I could see that the girl-child
had thrown the reata over his nose and had fashioned a hacka-
more with which she guided him. She had done this the mo-
ment she had slipped from the mare to his back, and she made
him go on running long after his wildness was dead in him."

The story ended, and Ponce discovered that he was grip-
ping his hands together so tightly that his whole body was
shaking. He was breathing swiftly, living each instant of the
great race, as if it were happening before his very eyes. He
even forgot to resent the central figure's having been a girl.
He felt a great longing for the days of the distant past when
such fearful deeds were regarded matter-of-factly by those
who witnessed them.

"The sorrel stallion," he urged, "what became of him?"

The Old Apache smiled, remembering. "Three moons later

40 MOUNTAIN STALLION

I saw him/' he answered. "He was chasing a white stallion,
and the same girl-child was riding him, as she had ridden the
roan mare."

"Did he catch him?" Ponce asked, his eyes glowing in the
dying firelight.

The ancient head moved slowly from side to side. The
stern features darkened.

"No. He was almost up to the white one's shoulder when
he suddenly stumbled. It was very rough country they were
running in covered with rocks of every shape and size. Had
he slowed ever so little, even, he might have regained his foot-
ing; but he was determined to catch the white stallion. The
girl-child was at that moment bending her leg under her for
the change to the white. When the sorrel fell, she could not
throw herself free. I stood and watched that great red horse
rise high in the air and turn end over end, like a broken wheel.
And I saw him crash onto his back among the jagged rocks
and crush the life from that brave girl-child, that silent, 'won-
derful mustanera"

The last words were spoken in a hoarse whisper. After they
had died, the tiny bed of coals sank lower and lower, and the
night wind moaned above the lonely plain like the voice of a
lost giant weeping. Tears stung Ponce's eyes, rolled down his
cheeks; but he was not ashamed. In the dimness, he could see
The Old Apache's sunken eyes. There were tears in them, also.

The silence ran on and on while the two of them sat staring
into the past.

"Could you be a mustafiero, my son?"

The question was like a rude hand slapping Ponce across
the face. He started violently, his head coming up and back,
his hands going suddenly cold.

"You mean for the gray stallion?" he asked.

"Even so."

Things were moving too swiftly. Ponce tried to reach out
and halt the wild circling of his thoughts; but they escaped

THE MUSTANEROS

41

him, leaving him silent and cold. He felt, rather than saw, The
Old Apache's eyes on him. They were like icy fingers, pushing
him toward a decision.

"Well?"

Ponce tried to move his head in denial; but he was as if
paralyzed. He tried to frame a "no" with his lips; but his
facial muscles were dead. In the utter stillness, his thoughts
went back to this day's sunset. Again the massive gray stallion
loomed threateningly against the purple sky. Again he heard
Joto chanting his thanks to that vanished warrior who had
led them to this place. And yet again the stallion stood before
him, fixing him with those dark, wicked eyes that bored deep

42 MOUNTAIN STALLION

into him, as if probing for the suspected shadow of fear.
Staring into the set eyes, he felt himself weakening, felt him-
self slipping toward the edge of the precipice.
"No/* he whispered, "no, I am not afraid."
Only then did the stallion's piercing eyes lose their threat-
ening glare. They softened, faded and were blotted out.

JLne Hunters

A COUNCIL of war was in progress in the cool richness of
David Forrest's mansion at Shady Mesa. The tall owner of
one of America's richest racing stables paced back and forth
before the big fireplace, his handsome face thoughtful and
faintly worried. He was the supreme commander, and his
generals sat silently before him, waiting for his decision.

Gil Dreen, the wise and trustworthy trainer of the Forrest
Thoroughbreds, would not voice an opinion until his employer
gave him a hint of his own. Joe Marino, the slight Italian jockey
who had abandoned the life of professional rider to work as
assistant trainer and rider of none but Forrest racers, kept his
dark eyes on the rug at his feet. Like Gil Dreen, he would not
be the first to speak; but unlike the older man, he was finding
it difficult to hold his tongue. Gabe Stuart, the kindly sheep-
man-turned-cattle-rancher, who was like a father to Ponce,
held his silence out of politeness. There was no doubt in his
mind as to what he would do. Barbara Forrest, the slender,
torn-boyish girl of sixteen, was not in the habit of interrupt-
ing her father's train of thought, so she bided her time, her
little chin stubbornly set.

The sixth member of the council was a very tired-looking
Apache named Ponce. He was silent, because silence was a

43

44 MOUNTAIN STALLION

habit with him and because he had already spoken at great
length. Now he watched the owner of Shady Mesa pacing
back and forth and waited for words he feared to hear, words
that would bring his carefully wrought plans crashing down
about his ears.

David Forrest had been at his pacing for a quarter hour,
and he was beginning to get a little tired. A year ago, he would
have laughed outright upon hearing the story Ponce had re-
lated this morning; but a year had taught him to think twice
before laughing at anything the handsome young man said.
It was fantastic, the gift Ponce had for putting his finger on
a thing that baffled everyone else; fantastic how very much he
could say with so few words. Still . . . this story of his was the
most fantastic of all. David Forrest caught himself shaking
his head. No, the most fantastic part of it all was Ponce's
quietly-voiced request. He struck a fist into an open palm and
turned abruptly to face his silent watchers.

"You say it will be necessary to run this gray giant down? 7 '
he asked for the tenth time. "And with three horses?"

Ponce's head moved ever so little. "Even so, Mr. Forrest/'

"You think it can be done?"

Again Ponce's head moved. "The Great Joto says it can be
done," he answered quietly, "and so it can be done."

That stopped the tall man for a moment. "Oh," he
mumbled, started to pace again, thought better of it and went
back to his questioning.

"You want Joe, here, to ride The Iron Duke. May I ask
which of my other horses you'd like?"

"Last Laugh/' Ponce replied quietly and kept his eyes care-
fully level with the corner of the fireplace as a look of amaze-
ment appeared on David Forrest's face.

"Last Laughr The man choked on the name. "You saw me
write out a check for $40,000 for that filly less than six months
ago, and you say, 'Last Laugh' as you would say, Tass the
gravy, please'!"

THE HUNTERS 45

He choked again, took out his handkerchief and blew noisily
into it. Ponce waited until he was certain his voice would not
betray him, then said calmly, "Next to The Iron Duke, she
is the fastest, is she not?"

"She is that!" Gil Dreen broke in suddenly, unable to resist
rushing to the defense of his newest threat to the racing world.
"And it might be she won't be next to The Duke, if she keeps
improving like she has been lately. She'll give your black a run
for her money one day, my lad."

At this friendly challenge to Desert Storm's supremacy,
Ponce momentarily forgot the business at hand. He smiled at
the belligerent trainer. "The day you name for the race to
prove that," he said quietly, "Desert Storm will be there."

"Here! Here!" David Forrest cut in, laughing. "Let's not get
sidetracked on that again! We'll all see which filly is the better
one when the time comes." He swung back to face Ponce.
"You say each of the three horses would have to chase this
wild stud three miles or so over rough, rocky ground?"

"No," Ponce answered, wondering how many times he had
already described the valley and the planned race. "The Iron
Duke would run him less than three. Last Laugh would have
less than two. The lake which Victorio will have to swim is a
quarter mile wide. I will be waiting with Desert Storm at the
lower end of it." He paused, then said with deliberate empha-
sis, "And the ground is not rough or rocky. It is perfectly
level, with thick grass to cushion the hoofs. It is better than
any track I have seen."

This last was of utmost importance, as everyone well knew.
No horseman, worthy of the name, would risk damaging the
delicate bones and tendons of his racers' legs the Thorough-
bred's weakest point by running them over unsafe terrain.
David Forrest knew Ponce well enough to be certain the
Apache would not lie about such an important thing. He
nodded, making a humming noise in his throat. His gaze
swung to his trainer.

46 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"Well, Gil? What do you think?"

"They're your horses, Mr. Forrest/' Gil Dreen replied.

"They're more yours than mine/' David Forrest stated
laughingly. "You train them. I just own them."

The stocky, ex-rider drew a long, slow breath, looked all
around and took the plunge. "All right, then. If Ponce says
the footing is good, that's enough for me. I'll go along, if The
Duke and Last Laugh go. It sounds like a crazy, wonderful
thing, and I'd like to see it."

There was a sudden stirring of the tense figures seated before
the fireplace; but David Forrest lifted a hand for silence and
turned to the grinning Italian jockey. "How do you feel about
this, Joe? You want to play mus What's the word, Ponce?"

"Mustanero"

"Moos-tan-yero" David Forrest repeated, grinning at his
own pronunciation of the word. "What's your verdict?"

The jockey was rubbing his hands together, like a batter
approaching the plate. He caught the young Apache's eye and
winked. "If Ponce wants me to start the ball rolling, I'll see
if The Duke can get within shooting distance of that gray
stud." He paused, winking again, this time at David Forrest.
"But what am I supposed to do when The Duke runs this
stud down within a mile, which he's apt to do? I haven't kept
up on my trick riding lately, and I don't figure to jump into
the middle of Ponce's Victorio, if I can help it. Maybe I'd
better let the stud chase mel"

Ponce said with a grin, "If The Iron Duke can catch him,
he can run away from him; so you will not have to worry, Joe."

"All right," said David Forrest, "that makes three votes
for Victorio's downfall; but it gives us only two riders. Gil,
which of your exercise boys would be likely to go for the idea?"

Barbara came off the divan, as if a pin had stuck her. "Ex-
ercise boy, my foot!" she cried indignantly. "I work as many
horses as any old boy on this place, and I'm not going to sit
in the grandstands this time!" She paused, out of breath, then

THE HUNTERS 47

grasped her father's arms. "Please, Dad! I've ridden Last Laugh
practically every day since you bought her. I know her like a
book, and she'll run for me. I don't weigh as much as the
boys, either. Let me ride her. Please!"

For a moment the horseman looked down into his daugh-
ter's pleading eyes, then he spoke over the top of her brown
head. "How about it, Ponce? Does she go?"

Ponce shook his head violently, the story of the Mexican
girl coming sharply to him. What if the tall chestnut filly fell
with Barbara? He closed his eyes at the thought, knowing he
would never forgive himself if anything happened to this
beautiful, laughing girl. But at that instant Barbara turned her
wide brown eyes on him, and he stopped shaking his head. He
said softly. "The greatest of the mustaneros was a girl-child.
Let Barbara go with us."

Barbara shouted, jumped over and threw her arms around
him. "Oh thank you, Ponce!" she exclaimed. "I'll do just as
you tell me. You'll see!"

Ponce's face grew scarlet, and his eyes widened until they
seemed about to pop from his head. He started to spring to
his feet, but Barbara's arms held him fast, and he fell back,
blushing harder than ever.

"Hey!"

Everyone whirled to stare at Gabe Stuart, who was glaring
around indignantly. "Just where do I fit into this here picture?"
he demanded. "Fm not about to stay behind and wait for
news to sift in on the evenin' breeze. What do I do?"

Ponce was obliged to wait for the laughter to die down be-
fore replying. "You fit in at the end, Mr. Gabe," he said.
"Victorio must be roped, once I have ridden him to the end
of the valley. The Great Joto said he would call in some of
the young men who are hunting in the mountains. With them,
you must do the most important work of all, capture Victorio
without injuring him, then get him into the corral."

"There's a corral?" Gabe asked.

48

MOUNTAIN STALLION

"There will be. Everything will be made ready before the
chase/'

David Forrest again called for attention. "It seems my vote
no longer counts/' he said, and chuckled. "All right We go.
Now wait!" He held up both hands to keep his listeners from
clamoring. "Since we're going, we might just as well be off this
afternoon. Listen carefully, all of you/' He spent several
minutes relegating certain tasks to each person, then shouted
in high excitement, like a cheer leader, "Come on now, every-
body! Let's go!"

An hour later, Ponce and Gabe stood in their own ranch-
yard with Desert Storm and the roan gelding, waiting for

THE HUNTERS 49

David Forrest to guide the big covered truck down the lane
and turn it around. When it halted, Joe Marino jumped down
and, with Ponce helping, pulled out the long ramp and fitted
it into place. The end-gates were swung wide, and Desert
Storm and the roan were led up the ramp and tied in narrow
stalls along with the five other horses from Shady Mesa.

With Ponce and Joe Marino riding with the horses, the big
truck roared down the lane, turned onto the unpaved high-
way and sped west after Gil Dreen's pick-up, which held camp-
ing equipment and tools for constructing the corral. Five
miles from the ranch, it bore down on the pick-up, and Gil
Dreen stepped harder on the gas to stay in the lead. They
followed the highway for fifty miles, then turned off onto a
faint set of tracks which had been formed long ago by freight
wagons carrying supplies to some mining boom town whose
name had long since been forgotten. They made good time on
the smooth, hard-packed sand. The thick cloud of dust they
raised as they roared along hung suspended in the still air
long after they had passed, as if determined to show that the
peace and solitude of this great expanse of sand and sky had
been disturbed, if only temporarily.

By three o'clock, they had reached their destination, a bar-
ren patch of sand and sagebrush close to the feet of the loom-
ing Mogollans. Again the ramp was run out and clamped into
place, and one by one the seven horses were led out into the
intense heat of afternoon. For the better part of an hour,
Gabe was busy loading the pack horse which had been brought
along, and his greatest difficulty consisted of keeping would-be
helpers from undoing his work as fast as he did it. Eventu-
ally the animal was loaded, the racers and the roan were
saddled, and Ponce started to lead out.

He turned for a final word. "We will travel a different way
than the one taken by The Great Joto and me. It will be
easier and shorter; but none of us must be careless. If any
horse begins to tire, we will stop and rest."

50 MOUNTAIN STALLION

He reined Desert Storm about and put her to an easy
canter toward the break in the hills ahead. In an amazingly
short time, they were winding up through the steep canyons
and draws. Every now and then Ponce drew up to take his
bearings from certain landmarks carefully described by The
Old Apache. With his mind's eye, he retraced the map which
Joto had drawn on the ground with a pointed stick before
sending him off alone.

The riders threaded canyons, skirted cliffs and waterfalls
and wound steadily up over long expanses of sandstone and
granite. Twice they halted to water the horses and to rest
them. The Forrest Thoroughbreds, unused to uneven ground
and heavy stock saddles, burned up more energy fretting at the
slowness of the pace than in actual work. The Iron Duke,
under Joe Marino's expert handling, kept close on the heels
of the black filly, doing his best to conceal his dislike for this
country, which was obviously meant for mountain goats. The
rangy chestnut filly was in a lather five minutes after setting
forth. By the time the party climbed the last steep slope below
the upland plain, she was played out.

Clattering up over the brow of the hill, Ponce rode out far
enough to allow the others to come onto level ground. He sat
looking across the plain toward the distant rock-walled valley
of the wild gray stallion. He felt excitement begin to shake
him as the others came up and exclaimed in hushed voices
over the silent beauty of this lost wilderness. Then he rode
toward the looming wall, picking out a group of figures stand-
ing around a low fire at the bottom of the trail.

Three young Apache men turned to stare at the cavalcade
bearing down on them, and The Old Apache lifted a hand in
solemn greeting. Ponce recognized the three bronze men as
the ones who, with their women, had built Desert Storm's
stable a year ago, and he smiled in their direction. Looking
along the wall, he saw their horses grazing through the sage
with The Old Apache's flea-bitten gray.

THE HUNTERS 51

He drew up a little distance from the fire, letting the others
of his party go on and dismount, with much animated talk
and energetic handshaking. He sat quite still in the saddle,
feeling excitement grip him at sight of the figures milling
around. The hunters were assembled!

On the point of dismounting, he glanced up along the sheer
face of the wall looming high above the now darkening plain.
Nothing showed up there on the narrow ledge; but it seemed
to him that two wicked black eyes were glaring down through
the dusk. He felt those eyes fixed unwinkingly on him and saw
in their glittering depths a question that was like an accusation
hurled at him from that wind-swept ledge.

T he Dangerous Crame

FROM early light until deep dusk, the band of hunters
worked at the foot of the valley's southern wall. Even Bar-
bara refused to be considered a member of the weaker sex,
for the time being, and labored with the men. Gabe and
David Forrest alone were excused from this part of the ex-
pedition. Throughout the daylight hours these two kept to
the high ledge and watched the movements of the little band
of mares belonging to the gray stallion.

On the first morning of his stay, The Old Apache had gone
to the foot of the inside trail and there left a patch torn from
his blanket. After a single whiff of the hated man-smell, the
gray had whirled and raced up the valley, driving his mares
before him. They had swam the lake and had not again come
into the lower half of the valley. Now the two older men
watched them through strong field glasses, studying Victorio
as he moved restlessly back and forth in the distance. Often
they could see him on the edge of the lake, facing down wind,
trying in vain to find an explanation for this danger that had
come into his domain. And often he would send his scream of
anger and fear down the wind, then whirl to race around the
unscalable walls, searching for a way of escape which did. not
exist. If he ate at all, it was during the night hours.

52

THE DANGEROUS GAME 53

While the hunters labored, erecting the corral in the south-
western comer of the valley, the gray stallion never lowered
his head to graze. Nor did he drink from the blue waters of
the lake, behind which he had retreated. Hour after hour
his uneasiness grew, until he could no longer stand motionless
as he had done. He moved back and forth continually, his
upflung head forever turned to the south where lay the danger
he so strongly sensed but could neither see nor smell.

On the afternoon of the second day, The Old Apache
moved along the eight-foot-high stockade, pushing and testing
the thick pine logs set upright in the sand. He grunted in a
satisfied way, when he could find no flaw in the construction.
The logs had been sunk more than two feet into the ground
and were lashed together midway up by ropes woven through
them. At the top, long saplings were nailed for added strength.
There were two of these walls. The other two sides of the
corral were formed by the solid rock which towered high
overhead. A narrow gate of stout poles closed the hundred-
foot-square corral.

In one corner of the stockade, the three Apache men had
constructed a strange looking affair known as a bronco stall/'
Four posts were set deep in the ground. To them were bound
eight-foot lengths of peeled logs, laid one on top of the other to
a height of four feet. One end of the rectangular affair had
been closed with four-foot logs. The whole thing measured
eight feet by four and looked as if it could withstand the on-
slaught of an angry elephant.

The Old Apache inspected it with great care. Finding it
faultless, he went to the stout snubbing post in the middle of
the corral and pushed at it. Since it was set four feet in the
ground, he had no success in moving it. Nodding his approval
one last time, he turned to his exhausted crew.

"We go now/' he stated. 'Tomorrow we see what we see/'

The seven men and Barbara climbed out of the valley,
descended to the plain . . . and tried to wait patiently for the

54 MOUNTAIN STALLION

day to end. When the sun sank behind the purple peaks, Gabe
and David Forrest left their lookout and joined the others
for the evening meal. Late into the night, The Old Apache
talked beside the fire, telling each in turn what would be
expected on the morrow. At last, there was silence along the
foot of the mesa, except for the cry of the night wind over the
empty plain and the steady rustle of the horses ranging
through the sage in search of grass. The camp was asleep . . .
all except Ponce.

Through the chill, dark hours, he lay in his blankets and
watched the clouds scudding before the wind, high overhead.
Knowing sleep to be impossible, he did not try; but kept his
solitary vigil, attempting to picture the race that would take
place at dawn. It had been described in detail by The Great
Joto. Still not even the all-seeing Apache could know every-
thing that might occur when the giant-like gray stallion found
himself pressed too closely by strange horses and by human
beings whose very smell he hated. When the faint moonlight
commenced to wane, the young Apache rose soundlessly and
went out to bring in the horses.

Desert Storm and The Iron Duke were grazing side by side,
some distance away. At his low call, they lifted their heads,
nickered soft greetings and trotted up. Grasping the black
filly's mane, Ponce vaulted astride and started for camp. One
by one, the other grazing animals looked up, then charged
after the black and the gray, as if terrified at the thought of
being left behind. When they came to the foot of the trail
leading up to the ledge, the whole camp was astir and waiting.

There was little conversation as each person claimed his
mount and bridled it. Gabe, David Forrest, Gil Dreen and
the three Apache men cinched heavy stock saddles on their
mounts; but Ponce, Joe Marino and Barbara were to use
nothing except the light racing bridles. There must be no un-
necessary weight to slow the three thoroughbreds in the com-
ing race.

THE DANGEROUS GAME

55

It still lacked a good hour before full daylight as the party
mounted and filed up the narrow trail, crossed the ledge and
descended to the valley. Between the walls, the narrow plain
was drowned in chill gloom, and little tendrils of mist drifted
along close to the ground, swept before the wind from the lake.

The Old Apache rode a short distance out into the grass
and halted. When Ponce, Joe Marino and Barbara drifted up,
he spoke to them briefly.

"Victorio stays close to the far wall, until the sun puts
warmth into this place. With the wind thus, he will see and
smell nothing until you, Joe Marino, are upon him. Take off
your shirt and, if he charges you, wave it. He will not come
close. Keep as near to him as you can. Barbara, when you ride

56 MOUNTAIN STALLION

out, be certain he sees you, else he may think a foolish mare
dares to chase him and turn on your filly,"

He hesitated, peering through the gloom and mist at Ponce.
"Your heart has a softness!" he said harshly in Apache.
"Harden it, when the time comes, or a bad thing will happen.
Know you that!" He lifted a skinny arm to the north. "Go
you now."

In a straight line, the three Thoroughbreds went up the
valley, their hoofs making practically no sound on the spongy
turf. It was distinctly cold at this high altitude, with the pre-
vious day's heat sucked out of the ground and the rocks by the
night wind. Traveling the five miles to the lake at a swinging
canter, the three horses were barely wanned up.

At the edge of the lake, Joe Marino and Barbara hesitated
only a moment before putting their reluctant mounts into the
cold waters. The Iron Duke obeyed Joe Marino's command
with but little show of uneasiness; but Last Laugh reared and
tried to turn, until Barbara struck her with the crop dangling
from her wrist. The chestnut plunged through the shallow
water for a hundred feet, then dropped suddenly out of sight,
to reappear a moment later, coughing and blowing. She gave
no more trouble; but swam strongly after the gray colt

Ponce waited until the others had struck the shelving bank
on the far side before turning Desert Storm and walking her
back along the pines below the wall. For ten minutes he kept
up the warming exercise, feeling her grow increasingly restive
as her muscles loosened. She tossed her head constantly and
danced along sideways. Tension was building up in her. From
the instant she had glimpsed Ponce this morning, she had
sensed excitement in the air, and her nerves had tightened
until she was half crazy with the urge to run.

Starting to turn at the end of the exercise ground he had
chosen, Ponce glimpsed a narrow opening in the pines to his
left. He looked closer, saw where a section of the wall had
crumbled and fallen down to form a high knoll whose top was

THE DANGEROUS GAME 57

almost level with the tops of the trees. He turned quickly
into the pines. A moment later, he was atop the knoll and
looking out over the trees toward the upper end of the valley.
It was growing lighter now, and in the thin air at this altitude,
distant objects loomed startlingly close.

Once he thought he detected a faint movement of color
along the upper end of the valley; but he could not be cer-
tain. Of Barbara and Joe Marino there was no sign. The girl,
he knew, would by now be in her place, halfway along the
course that had been set. Joe Marino was, in all probability,
threading his way through the pines. It was more than likely
that he had reached the far end, where the small band of wild
horses were known to be at this early hour.

Despairing of seeing anything from this distance, Ponce
descended to level ground and again moved Desert Storm
back and forth to keep her loosened up. He did not know how
long he had been at that task, when some inner sense made
him whirl the big black and again climb the knoll. His breath
stopped in his throat at the sight before him.

A speck of color was moving swiftly down the middle of the
valley, coming out of the shadow of the high wall into full
light. Ponce watched it come on, grow more distinct, and he
knew that it was the band of eight mares in full flight. They
swept along in a tight-pressed bunch, trying to keep ahead of
the giant gray that swept back and forth at their rear, like a
darting, threatening shadow. They had come two miles at that
high speed, and it was obvious some of them were beginning
to tire. Time and again one of them would veer out, trying to
escape; but always the streaking gray anticipated the move
and bore in to close up the ranks.

For two endless minutes, Ponce watched the wild race.
Twice he saw the gray stallion halt and whirl to gaze back
over the way he had come. When this happened a third time,
Ponce saw the reason for it. Coming steadily down on the
fleeing band was Joe Marino on The Iron Duke. The mag-

58 MOUNTAIN STALLION

nificent Kentucky Derby winner was still far behind; but he
was beginning to move faster with every stride of his long,
flashing legs.

"Come on, Iron Duke!" Ponce shouted wildly. "Come on!"

A half mile to the rear of his quarry, the tall Thoroughbred
flattened his sleek body nearer to the ground and went into
his sprint. He closed in with startling swiftness, running with
that wonderful, floating action of his. It was clear that the
clever Joe Marino had been saving him for this last stretch
drive.

For the space of a dozen heartbeats, the wild gray stood
with head upflung, watching the Thoroughbred streaking
down on him. Then he whirled and sped after the slowing
mares at a speed that left Ponce dazed. The stallion's black-
stockinged legs were an invisible blur against the dark ground
as he lined out in that dazzling rush. He appeared to float
just off the ground, without visible motion or effort. Coming
up on the mares, he was forced to slow. For another quarter
mile he ran behind them, his head turned back over his
shoulder as he watched that other gray move remorselessly up.

Yard by yard, The Iron Duke closed in. For a hundred
yards more the band stayed ahead of him, then Joe Marino's
left arm commenced to rise and fall in steady rhythm, as the
jockey took to the whip. The racer responded with a final burst
of speed, sweeping in to press the stallion still closer. And
Victorio, terrified and puzzled, abandoned his mares. He went
through their ranks, scattering them like quail, and set himself
to outrun the now tiring Iron Duke.

For another hundred yards the Thoroughbred held to the
chase; but when a movement off to the left told Joe Marino
that Barbara was ready to play her part, he pulled the ex-
hausted colt in. He waved a hand, slowed to a canter, and
watched David Forrest's $40,000 chestnut filly start her move
against Victorio.
Ponce had seen Last Laugh run but a few times. Now he

THE DANGEROUS GAME 59

fully realized how well-grounded were Gil Dreen's boasts
about the filly's speed. She came away from the pines at an
angle and took out after the gray stallion like a frightened
bird. For a brief time only she seemed unsure of herself,
going with head high and tail twisted up over her rump. But
within a hundred yards she had found her stride and settled.

A half mile flashed behind frantically drumming hoofs.
Clearly it was not necessary for Barbara to show herself, for
the big stallion took only one glance at this new threat before
facing ahead again and throwing himself into panicked flight.
At first he pulled away from the furiously running chestnut;
but after a half mile he ceased to gain.

Seeing that, Ponce experienced a flash of doubt that gradu-
ally changed to disappointment The gray stallion was not
proving himself to be the great racer the Apache boy had
expected. True, he had already run over four miles at high
speed. In all likelihood, he had scarcely eaten or drunk for
over three days, and the fast could not fail to affect his
stamina. Still, he was somehow losing stature in the young
man's eyes. And then disappointment and doubt died in
Ponce as he continued to watch the race going on down there.

The chestnut filly had ceased to gain. Traveling at the peak
of her speed, she had come up to within a hundred feet of the
stallion. But there she hung as Victorio, without visible effort,
lengthened his strides just enough to maintan that distance
between him and his pursuer. Barbara moved her heels de-
mandingly against the chestnut barrel; three times she tapped
the churning shoulders with her crop, signaling for more
speed. Last Laugh responded with everything she had. It was
not enough. Try as she might, she could not cut more precious
feet from that gap. She held on for the better part of a mile,
twice veering out to head Victorio off as he sought to go wide
of the lake. When the blue waters rose in a glinting spray
before the stallion's chest and flailing hoofs, she was still a
hundred feet to the rear.

60 MOUNTAIN STALLION

From the knoll, Ponce watched Barbara bring the chestnut
up to the edge of the lake. The gray was swimming swiftly,
pointing for the opposite shore. Then, even as the girl hesi-
tated, that wicked head veered toward the right side of the
lake. Ponce darted a look at Barbara, sensing what she would
do. He gasped, then shouted a warning that was never heard
as the chestnut plunged into the water under her rider's stern
handling. The next instant the Apache had whirled Desert
Storm off the knoll and was crashing down through the trees.
He knew all too well that the girl would force Victorio to swim
in a straight line, whatever the danger and the cost might be.
He pulled Desert Storm to a halt at the edge of the trees
and waited . . . waited with his breath stopped in his throat
and with his heart hammering wildly against his ribs.

But Barbara's plan proved successful. With the chestnut
filly and the hated human figure behind him, the stallion
abandoned all attempts to swing to the right and concentrated
on gaining the far shore. He swam strongly, plowing through
the blue water without visible effort. Only his head was
above water, so that his feet never broke the surface, and that
head revolved constantly as the staring eyes sought a way of
escape from the unfamiliar danger closing in. Ponce gazed at
the finely chiseled head in morbid fascination. It reminded him
of a snake he had once seen swimming across the arroyo in
flood season. But whereas the serpent had moved silently
and unseeingly, the stallion's red-rimmed nostrils bespoke the
terror which drove him. In evenly-spaced bursts of sound, that
terror rasped from gaping mouth and nostrils, while the red-
flecked eyes blazed steadily out from beneath the dripping
forelock.

Ponce was seized by a numbing chill . . . and guilt. What
greed had made him seek to rob this magnificent creature of its
freedom? What right had he to commit such a crime? He
would not could not be the one to ride the gray down not
after witnessing that heartbreaking struggle for freedom. He

THE DANGEROUS GAME

61

gasped for breath. His mouth felt hot and dry. He must
signal Barbara to turn back. In that instant, he heard a voice
echoing and reechoing in the silence of the long valley.

'Tour heart has a softness! Harden it, -when the time comes,
or a bad thing mil happen!"

The gray head came on. The striking hoofs found the
shelving bottom of the lake. The gleaming body heaved up
out of the deep water into the shallows and plunged toward
him. And still the head turned back and forth, seeking . . .
seeking.

62 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Horror gripped Ponce as he realized finally what the bad
thing was.

Victorio came through the shallows and out of them in a
foaming cascade of spray and gravel. For a moment he poised
on the edge of the lake, facing down the valley, his head held
high on the muscle-corded neck as he tested the wind and
sought to pierce the distance with his eyes. Behind him, the
chestnut filly came on, nearing the shallows. And behind him,
as if to put an end to the awful suspense, Barbara's voice
sounded.

The stallion quivered. His ears went flat. He rose on his
hind legs, emitting a terrifying scream as he whirled and
came down facing the lake. He tensed there, sinking into a
crouch, like a tawny mountain cat. Water ran off his heaving
flanks. The sound of his labored breathing was like muted
thunder in the silence of the valley. Legs wide set under him,
his head snaked forward, he waited. His eyes were fixed un-
winkingly on the girl coming steadily toward him on the
chestnut. And there -was murder in them.

JLJie Strength of Terror

WITH a ringing cry, Ponce flung Desert Storm away from
the trees, straight at the threatening creature at the water's
edge. For a single shocked instant Victorio stood rooted in his
tracks, his head darting around, his glazed eyes taking in the
picture of the black rushing down upon him. For that endless
instant it seemed that he would spring to meet the filly's
charge. Then, with a scream of hopeless rage and fear, he
whirled and streaked down the valley, his wet body flashing
in the strengthening light.

Desert Storm went after him like a coursing greyhound.
Within two hundred feet, she was reaching for her top stride
and beginning to close in with amazing swiftness. Her long
legs strode out, retracted, reached again, like the limbs of a
giant, hurling her onward ever faster. Pressed flat along her
neck, Ponce felt those lengthening strides. He urged her
sharply for a quarter mile, then glanced to the front. A grim
smile touched his lips when he saw that Victorio was unable
to outdistance her.

Those dark legs of the stallion's were, he knew, a trifle
longer than the filly's. Throughout the race with The Iron
Duke, then out in front of Last Laugh, they had worked like
perfectly-timed pistons, holding the stallion safely out of

63

64 MOUNTAIN STALLION

reach of the hunters. But strain as he might, he could not now
add one yard to his 2oo-foot lead. Remembering how he had
moved with The Iron Duke challenging him, Ponce knew that
he was tiring at last.

He had run over five miles at close to top speed. He could
not hold himself to that smooth, floating action any longer.
He was visibly laboring as he fought to stave off this latest
threat In less than a mile, he began to fall back, foot by foot,
as the filly, fresh and crazy to run, thundered along his trail.
The distance separating them closed to less than a hundred
feet. For another half mile, then, Ponce rated Desert Storm,
gauging the manner of the stallion's going, waiting for the
undeniable break in those reaching strides that would foretell
defeat. He concentrated his attention on the streaming silver
tail, knowing that it would be the first to betray Victorious
exhaustion. Moments before, it had floated out high and
straight back from the heaving rump. It was sinking now,
beginning to describe a whipping, circular motion. And as the
race held, it whipped harder and harder, erasing all doubt. The
stallion was at the end of his endurance.

Half blinded by the wind and the filly's slashing mane, Ponce
kept his gaze fixed on the fleeing gray. He was less than fifty
feet behind him now, going steadily up, pressing him merci-
lessly. The sound of the racing hoofs was like dulled heartbeats
on the springy turf, the sound of the stallion's agonized breath-
ing like choking sobs. And with that awful sound in his ears,
Ponce felt his heart swell within him until it seemed that it
must burst. Never before had he experienced such admiration
and awe for a horse. The feeling of guilt he had known back
at the lake was gone altogether as foot by foot he brought
Desert Storm up. For the first time in his life he fully under-
stood the meaning of the oft-voiced phrase, "the heart of a
Thoroughbred." Except that his own eyes told him the truth,
he would not have believed that any animal could have with-
stood the pressure thrown against it that Victorio had with-

THE STRENGTH OF TERROR

65

stood this day. He released his grip on Desert Storm's reins,
overpowered by the desire to come up on Victorio and capture
him before that great heart burst.

The filly shot ahead, as if propelled by invisible springs. Low
to the ground, she fled in that dazzling, heart-stopping action
that had brought thousands of racing fans to their feet in hys-
terical applause. And the stallion, fighting with deadened legs
and empty lungs, could not hold her off.

She drew alongside, edged against him, matched him stride
for stride. But from some bottomless well, the terrified gray
summoned up the last dregs of his stamina. For fifty yards more
he ran on with the strength and the courage of desperation.
It was no good. Despite the valiant effort, he was defeated by
the big filly, who clung to his side like a leech and pressed him
steadily.

In Victorio there was no thought of turning aside, no
thought of striking out with hoof and teeth, no thought of
winning his freedom. Side by side, the two animals thundered

66 MOUNTAIN STALLION

down the valley, and now they looked like two grays. From
muzzle to croup the black was covered with foamy lather. On
the deeply cushioned grass, they made practically no sound.
Like two ghosts from the spirit world, they raced side by side
for the looming wall in the distance.

Ponce centered every nerve of his being on the final part he
must play in this frightful game. He uncoiled the length of
braided rawhide from about his waist and shook the loop out
wider. Under him, the filly's body was slick with lather, and
when he bent his left leg beneath him and tried to rest the
instep across the backbone, it slipped repeatedly. Four times
he attempted to get it in place and failed. The fifth time, he
succeeded. With the wind a deafening roar in his ears, with
his eyes streaming, he glanced aside and picked out the section
of the gray's whipping mane which he must grasp. Slowly he
leaned out.

In his palm the coarse mane was like a mass of coiling wires.
He clenched his fingers until the nails cut into his palm, and,
as the two animals ran on, he straightened his left leg, lifted
himself into the air and felt himself falling sideways into space.
He writhed in mid-air, throwing his right leg out. Victorio
stumbled, crashed against Desert Storm, then veered away. In
that instance Ponce was jerked astride the stallion.

For the first time in his life, the Apache boy knew stark,
numbing terror. He could not get a grip with his thighs. Vic-
torio's action was utterly different from the filly's, savagely
jarring, broken from exhaustion. The bulging muscles which
can so easily lift a stallion on his hind legs, writhed and
bunched under him like live things. The boy felt himself
slipping to the left and grabbed the thick mane with both
hands. Victorio stumbled again, and Ponce slipped far to the
right. Again he fought to keep his seat.

Twice he threw the looped rawhide. Twice it whipped
back. The third time, the circle fell over the outthrust m,uzzle,
and the boy drew it tight. Only then did he become aware

THE STRENGTH OF TERROR 67

that Desert Storm was no longer alongside. Out of the corner
of his eye, he glimpsed her cantering off at an angle, aiming
toward the pines, her head held high and to one side, to avoid
the trailing reins.

Ponce faced forward, warned by Victorious shifting action.
The stallion was still running; but his strides were breaking.
He went on another hundred yards, then plunged to a halt.

The Apache had expected that. Before the stallion could
collect himself, the braided rawhide popped against his lathered
rump with a noise like a gunshot. The pliant reata inflicted
no pain upon the thick, dappled hide; but the noise it made in
striking startled the stallion. He reared, shrieking and flailing
the air with his forefeet. The reata popped against his shoul-
der, and he came down and switched ends, like a snapped
whip. He bucked once, then reared again. For a moment he
stood motionless, poised like a terrible shadow, then, with a
strangled scream, he flung himself over backwards, seeking to
crush his tormentor beneath his great weight.

Ponce had expected that also. He rolled to the left, freeing
himself, as the stallion crashed to earth. Before the half-dazed
animal had again regained his feet, he was once more astride.

Insane with rage and terror, Victorio bellowed and bucked
in a tight circle. As he reared a third time, the reata popped
against his neck. He came down on all fours and fled toward the
wall and the remembered trail. Twice he skidded to a halt and
sought to dislodge the rider from his back, and twice the
popping reata frightened him into labored flight. A fourth time
he halted; but this time he stood quivering on wide-spread
legs, unable to struggle further. When Ponce urged him on-
ward with heels and rope, he quivered again, then plodded
ahead, his muzzle scant inches above the grass that was still
jeweled with the morning dew.

The grueling race and battle had not left Ponce unmarked.
The fall had bruised him and torn a long gash across his bare
chest. Both hands were bloody from gripping the reata and

68 MOUNTAIN STALLION

fighting Victorious head up. From head to foot he was covered
with blood-flecked foam, and he reeled dazedly atop the
staggering stallion.

The horsemen, waiting at the foot of the wall, raced for-
ward, Gabe Stuart in the lead. The old rancher dashed up,
swinging his lasso in a wide circle over his head. He shouted to
Ponce; but the youth gave no sign that he heard.

The roan gelding wheeled and dodged in close. "Get off
him, son!" Gabe yelled. "I'm goin' to rope him. GET OFF!"

Ponce tried to answer, tried to call out; but his bruised lips
would not move. He could only shake his head numbly. It
was one of the young Apache men who realized that he could
neither speak nor move. He circled the stallion on his stocky
bay, then sent it in close. The man's arm flashed out in the
sun, lifting Ponce and holding him firmly as the bay wheeled
and galloped off a hundred feet. The Apache rider drew up,
threw a leg over the horn and slid to the ground. He lowered
Ponce into the grass. For one brief instant the man looked
down into Ponce's eyes, a slow smile moving across his face.

"Good man," he said in guttural tones. "I call you brother
now."

The bay wheeled, and a moment later two singing loops
flashed out and dropped over the gray stallion's lowered head.
What followed left everyone gasping in astonishment.

The low-swinging head jerked up at the tightening sensation
about the thick neck, and the dark eyes were again aflame with
the lust to kill. For the fraction of a second Victorio froze in
his tracks, then, with a strangled scream, he darted his head
around, his long yellow teeth gleaming in the sunlight. There
was a sharp, metallic click, and Gabe Stuart's lasso dropped
into the dust, cleanly cut two feet from the bulging neck.
Someone shouted a warning; but it came too late.

Like a striking snake, the gray stallion whipped about and
propelled himself straight at the Apache whose rope held him.
The man yelled and jumped his bay around, trying to escape;

THE STRENGTH OF TERROR 69

but the stallion swerved in mid-stride and struck the stocky
pony like a battering ram. The pony crashed down, its legs
flailing wildly, and Victorio hurtled on over the fallen horse
and rider. He took three jumps before he hit the end of the
lasso, which was still secured to the saddle of the downed
pony. The rope popped like a gunshot, and Victorio was
thrown end over end, to strike the ground with a force that
could be felt a hundred yards away. His breath went out of
him in a loud explosion; but even as he fell, he writhed around
and was instantly on his feet. He pivoted to flee, but the rope
held, and the bay, just rising to its feet, was jerked down and
dragged by the bellowing, lunging gray.

Like a great cat, Victorio twisted and leaped and fought to
rid himself of that choking loop of fire about his throat. Again
and again his rage and terror burst from his gaping mouth in
deafening shrieks that seemed to fill all the valley. For fifty
feet he dragged the helplessly struggling bay, whose rider
could do nothing except follow along and make futile grabs
at the firmly tied lasso. Then he whirled and rushed the pony a
second time.

There was then an endless moment in which shrieking, mill-
ing horses and riders and a thick cloud of dust numbed the
senses. The second and third Apache riders flashed in between
the stallion and the fallen pony, their ropes twirling about their
heads. And Gabe Stuart, his second lasso in his hand, ran his
gelding around behind, trying for another throw.

Suddenly all action ceased. The dust drifted to the earth,
and Victorio stood on widely-braced legs, helpless and de-
feated. Four taut ropes extended from his neck to the saddle
horns of Gabe and the three Apaches, and he could not move
an inch in any direction. His eyes glazed and became set in
his mud-caked head. The sound of his breathing was like the
roaring of the wind across the mountains.

Ponce lifted himself on his elbows and lay watching the
sickening scene. He had not believed any animal was capable

70 MOUNTAIN STALLION

of displaying such naked, murderous rage and fear and
strength. Dimly he remembered stories of wild stallions which
had chosen death rather than submit to capture at the hands
of man, and he knew that Victorio was one of those. He
watched the senseless struggle go on and on, until it seemed
it would never stop until the gray stallion lay dead on the
ground. Dimly he heard himself shouting to the Apache who
had dismounted and was inching his way along one of the
ropes.

"Quickly, my brother! Oh, go quickly! He will die!"

The man gave no sign that he had heard; but continued his
slow progress, his glittering eyes never leaving the eyes of
Victorio. From them would come the danger signals.

In the man's hand was a four-foot length of cotton rope.
He trailed it along at his side, now and then flipping it to make
certain it was still straight. He went on until three feet lay
between him and the trembling, heaving stallion; then he
moved forward another six inches. For a long moment he stood
there, staring into the blazing eyes, then his hand that held
the length of rope flicked out, like a striking snake. The end
of the rope flipped around behind the widely-spread forelegs
and was caught by the Apache. An instant later, the noose
lay against one of Victorious pasterns. The Apache stepped
back, his shoulder muscles bunching. He jerked hard, tighten-
ing the noose, and as Victorio made one last frantic lunge,
his legs buckled under him, and he crashed to the ground.

Too swiftly for the eye to follow, the Apache darted in,
grabbed the flailing hind legs, took a series of half turns with
the rope and stepped back.

Sick with dismay, Ponce pushed himself to his feet and
staggered over. For a moment he stood staring down at the
great animal whose defeat he had brought about. Then he
felt himself falling forward into whirling, roaring blackness.

8

"JjLe JLs a j\.iueri

FOR a half hour the shaken hunters stood in a circle about
the helpless stallion, even now not quite trusting that he
would stay bound. They had witnessed too much nerve-shat-
tering excitement in the closing moments of the deadly strug-
gle to breathe easily until the bloody, gasping, lathered demon
was safely barred inside the stout corral.

They all turned to watch in silence as Barbara and Joe
Marino came up on their exhausted racers. A hundred feet
away, Barbara saw the stallion lying helpless in their midst
and kicked Last Laugh into a gallop. She slid to the ground,
ran in close and burst into tears.

"Oh, Dad!" she cried, "What have we done?"

David Forrest could not speak. He went over, put a com-
forting arm about the shaking shoulders and pulled the brown
head close against his chest. After a long moment he said
gently, "It's all right, honey. It's all right."

"But it's not!" Barbara cried, pushing away and turning
wide eyes to her father's face. "He earned his freedom! He
outran The Iron Duke! Last Laugh couldn't catch him!" She
whirled, pointing an accusing finger at Desert Storm, who
had come in and now stood nearby. "And she couldn't have
caught him either, if it had been an equal race!"

71

72 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"Honey! Honey!" David Forrest said soothingly. "You
mustn't go on like this. Now let's . . ."

Barbara's voice rose to a shrill shriek. "I don't carel It's not
right, what we've done! You've got to turn him . . ."

Her words ended abruptly as her father held her at arm's
length and shook her ungently. "Barbara!" he said sharply.
"That will be enough!" He paused, then spoke in a calmer
tone. "Now listen to me very carefully. You saw Victorio at
his best in full flight, running free and for you the whole
thing, the running down business, was just a game. You didn't
think ahead to the end of the race, nor think of why we might
be doing this.

"I readily admit it's a sad scene, right now. I don't blame
you for crying. Whenever I read of a criminal being sent to
prison, I feel somehow sorry for him, because he will not be
able to walk about freely any more, nor smell the breezes,
nor feel the sun on his face. But I don't say he should be left
free to commit more crimes! If he has it in him, he will be-
come a good, useful citizen while he's in prison. He will have
every opportunity to learn a useful trade. It's up to him.

"Victorio is a criminal." When Barbara started to speak,
he demanded in a louder tone, "Where do you think he got
those eight mares? I'll tell you. Every one of them belongs to
some rancher from whose pasture Victorio stole her. I haven't
had a chance to get a good look at this stud's teeth; but I'm
willing to bet he's not over four years old. That means he has
stolen an average of two mares a year; but he didn't start steal-
ing until he was at least two which means he has averaged
four mares a year! Is it fair to ranchers to let this wild stud go
on stealing their finest brood-stock? How would you feel, if
you went out to bring Last Laugh in from her paddock some
morning, only to find her gone? $40,000 goner

There was a long silence. Everyone was thinking about
what the horseman had just said and realizing the truth in
it. Barbara was an intelligent girl, and though her heart ached

"HE IS A KILLER!" 73

for the pitiful-looking gray stallion lying in the dust nearby,
she would not hold to a position which had been proven to be
a wrong one.

"Dad/' she said quietly, "I'm sorry. I never thought . . .
It's just that he looks so frightened and helpless/'

Her father drew her back into the curve of his arm. "Of
course he does, honey. But we'll start thinking of him as if
he were a criminal, which he is. And we'll start hoping that
in prison he will learn how to become an upright, useful
citizen. Right?"

"Right!" Barbara said, and joined in the relieved laughter
that ran around the circle.

Joe Marino had come up in time to hear most of his em-
ployer's lecture. When everyone laughed, he jumped down
from the beaten Iron Duke and walked over to examine the
wild stallion at close range. His dark eyes got wider and wider,
the longer he looked, and he made a shrill whistling noise in
his throat.

"Goll-eeee!" he muttered, taking in the points of the cap-
tive. "Talk about a horse! What he couldn't do to a track
couldn't be donel" He broke off, catching sight of Ponce lying
in the grass, a dozen yards away. "What's wrong with him?"

Gabe Stuart was squatting beside the unconscious young
man, bathing the scratched and bruised face with his hand-
kerchief, which he had wet from a canteen. He said briefly,
"Passed out; but he's all right. Little too much horse for one
day, I reckon."

The jockey was beside him before he had finished speaking;
but, quick as he was, Barbara was before him. They knelt,
staring down into the battered, pale face. One eye was swollen
shut from a wide, purplish bruise. The full lips were faintly
blue, and the lower one bore deep tooth marks. The naked i
upper part of Ponce's body contained countless cuts and
bruises. One wide skid burn showed angrily red against the
bronze skin of his left side. Barbara burst into tears again.

74 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Joe Marino rose to his feet and stepped away. "Poor kid/'
he muttered, shaking his curly head. "Ill make no bones about
statin' that I'd sooner tackle a wildcat barehanded than that
gray devil! Wow! Can he ever tear up the turf!"

David Forrest, who had until now resisted the temptation
to ask about the earlier part of the race, could contain him-
self no longer. "How'd it go, Joe?" he questioned. "Did The
Duke give him a run?"

"Ha!" the jockey snorted. "The Duke and I were never
in the race! First time in his life I ever knew that colt to want
to do something besides run."

"What do you mean?" David Forrest demanded, coming
close. "You're not going to try to tell us he wanted to fight?"

Joe Marino's eyes were twinkling. He was getting a great
kick out of watching Shady Mesa's owner tottering on the
verge of a breakdown of his usual control. He rubbed his black,
short hair. "Well," he drawled, "he didn't exactly say that
was what he had in mind, but I kinda gathered as much, from
certain little hints he gave me, such as trying to bounce me
onto the ground, standin' up on his hind legs an' makin' like
a trick-dog, an' all but turnin' flips. You know, that crazy
colt up an' tried to buck me off? Yipee! I'll have nightmares
about this for a month!"

By now, Gil Dreen was practically jumping up and down
with impatience. "Joe!" he shouted. "Will you tell us what
happened? Never mind your dreams!"

Joe Marino grinned hugely. "Well, sure," he said in a sur-
prised voice. "Why didn't you say you wanted to know? Well,
The Duke, here, started pawin' up sod an' bellerin' like a
mad bull the minute he caught sight of the gray stud. After
about a minute of makin' like a bronc buster,* I figured
I'd best do what Joto told me to, an' do it quick! I yanked
off my shirt an' took off after the bunch that had strung out

* A rider of wild horses. The nick name "Bronco Buster" is most commonly
applied to rodeo riders today.

"HE IS A KILLER!" 75

in a dead run, with the gray workin' 'em over right an' left, to
make sure they kept their mind on runnin'. Only trouble was,
I couldn't get The Duke's mind on that little piece of business.
He kept tryin' to get rid of me, until I worked him over a
little. By then, though, we were almost a mile behind the
wild bunch.

"I finally got The Duke lined out; but it was too late to
do much chasin', so I figured I might as well give old Dukie
his mornin' work out. We started coastin' right along, then.
The mares were gettin' tired of all this foolishness an' kept
tryin' to break away, so they could stop. They didn't argue
one tiny little bit, though, when the gray showed what pretty
teeth he had. Still, two miles just about did them in. That
was when I started shootin' ducks an' whoop-dee-doin'-it for
home."

"Started w/utf?" Gabe exclaimed. "What in tarnation you
talkin 7 about, boy. Shootin 7 ducks an 7 what? 77

David Forrest explained, smilingly. "Whoop-dee-doin'-it
for home is track slang meaning to turn a racer loose and ask
him to give every ounce of speed he's got/'

"Oh," Gabe muttered. "I Well, go on, Joe/'

The jockey obviously enjoyed his role of story-teller. He
nodded quickly and plunged back into the story. "Didn't take
us long to come up on the mares, of course; an' we went
through them like a couple of jet fighters. The Duke made
up his mind he was goin' to catch the other stud, an' for a
minute there I thought he just might. He was pickin' 'em up
an' layin' 'em down like a hound dog after a jackrabbit; but he
couldn't do any better than hold his place for a couple hundred
yards. He did hold on that long; but by then he'd run more
than his distance, an' when Barbara came out of the pines like
a scared antelope on Last Laugh, I eased The Duke in. Gosh,
he was mad!"

David Forrest turned and called to Barbara. "Honey, come
over here an' tell us how your part went!"

76 MOUNTAIN STALLION

She rose from Ponce's side and walked over. "There's not
much to add/' she said. "I heard Joe telling you about The
Duke. You know, when he started closing in, I almost col-
lapsed. It looked as if he was going to catch Victorio! Then,
I saw he wasn't going to make it, so I got ready. At first I
couldn't get that silly Last Laugh lined out. She was running
off the ground* for a hundred yards; but I gave her a good
whack and she settled down. The whip made her mad, and
she took off as if she had no doubt whatsoever about catching
the stud. The farther she went, the madder she got. You know,
I really believe she'd have tried to knock him to pieces, if she'd
caught him!"

She paused and turned to her father. "Dad, you certainly
didn't throw your money away when you bought her. She's
going to sweep everything you put her in this winter. I know
that! She didn't sweep the gray stud, though. At the top of
her sprint, she started closing in. She got within a hundred
feet of him; but then I saw that he had let her do that. She
poured it on for over a mile; but she couldn't do it. Twice I
had to take her out to keep the stud headed for the lake, and
when he was in the water, he started to turn, so I put Last
Laugh in after him/'

She stopped and, with her father's eyes steady on her, sud-
denly dropped her gaze to the ground.

"Go on, Barbara," said David Forrest. "There's something
else, isn't there? What happened?"

"I ... well ... I ..."

"We're waiting, Barbara," urged her father.

For a long moment Barbara continued staring at the ground,
then she drew a long breath, expelled it quickly and looked
up. "I don't think I ought to say this, because it probably

* An expression common in racing circles, meaning that a horse is moving
with high, exaggerated action, instead of reaching out in long, full strides. It
occurs most frequently at the start of a race, and can spell the difference be-
tween defeat and victory, unless corrected instantly.

"HE IS A KILLER!" 77

doesn't mean a thing. I don't know anything about wild studs;
they probably all act that way/ 7

"What way, Barbara? 7 ' her father asked gently.

"Well, Victorio turned, when he hit dry land. Last Laugh
and I were still about fifty feet from him, when he whirled
and stood there, glaring at us like an insane monster. I never
saw a horse look like that before. He seemed ready to jump
at us, the minute we came within reach/'

"What happened?"

David Forrest's shout startled Barbara so that she jumped.
"Ponce came out on Desert Storm," she said quickly. "He was
yelling at the top of his voice, and it scared Victorio, and he
turned and ran. You know the rest."

There was a stunned silence for a full minute after the
girl finished her recital. David Forrest stood looking straight
before him. He breathed long and slowly, then let the air run
out in a thin thread of sound. "Thank you, God," he whisp-
ered. His eyes swung to Gil Dreen, and the two exchanged a
long, slow look of understanding. He said nothing more, but
he began to shake his head slowly from side to side, as if
waking from a horrible nightmare.

No one had taken any notice of The Old Apache during
the telling of the two stories. All this while he had been
squatting cross-legged on the ground, less than a dozen feet
from the bound gray stallion. In that time his eyes had never
ceased to study the animal. While the voices had gone on
rising and falling behind him, he had steadily gazed into
Victorious dark orbs, searching for something he seemed to
know was there, but which he could not find. His hands lay
flat across his thighs, and he was bent slightly forward. He ap-
peared wholly at ease, wholly relaxed. His black eyes showed
no expression other than one of vague puzzlement. The thing
that gave him away to Ponce, when the Apache boy regained
consciousness, was his complete deafness to his, Ponce's
question.

78 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"What is it, my father?" the youth asked. "What do you
see?"

He rose, wincing with pain, and came halfway to the
motionless Joto, then stopped, knowing he must not break
in upon the ancient warrior's concentration. Swaying slightly,
he stood in the bright glare of the sun and watched that silent,
intent probing go on and on. And as he watched, he felt
something dark and sinister hovering between the stallion
and the warrior. A chill shook him, though perspiration was
standing out on his exposed skin. Almost against his will he
asked again, "What is it, my father? What do you see?" Then
he clenched his teeth against further sound. Trembling, he
waited for the break to come. Without turning his eyes away,
he knew that everyone else was staring at The Old Apache.

The break came with surprising suddenness. One instant,
The Old Apache was locked behind the dark doors of his
thoughts. The next instant, he was on his feet and facing the
others. He addressed the three Apache riders in a quiet,
matter-of-fact tone.

"Delgadito, take you the hackamore you have made ready.
Juan, go you behind Victorio and grasp with your teeth one
of his ears. You know how it is done. Dallo Chie, go you with
Delgadito. Move with him, and as he holds the hackamore
ready, grasp you with your fingers Victorious nostrils. Do this
quickly, and without fear. He tells me he will not fight; but I
know not whether to believe him."

He said this last so casually that for an instant no one
realized the significance of the words. When they did, they
exchanged startled glances, then turned back as the three
Apaches moved in on Victorio.

Like men who knew their business, the lithe riders went in
behind the stallion. For a moment they paused, then a silent
signal passed among them, and they darted forward like
bronze shadows, their arms reaching for Victorious motionless
head. Juan's teeth flashed whitely, then clamped over one

"HE IS A KILLER!" 79

pointed ear in a twisting, grinding hold.* Dallo Chie, moving
with him, reached out and fastened the fingers of both hands
into the flared nostrils. Caught between the two vice-like,
agonizing holds, the stallion uttered a single, startled groan,
then froze.

Coming in around the crouching Dallo Chie, Delgadito
knelt and waited until the other released the delicate muzzle.
With a single, darting motion, he slipped the hackamore on,
then slid around close to Juan and waited until Dallo Chie
again had the nostrils clenched between his fingers. Juan re-
leased the ear, and Delgadito looped the hackamore around
the top of the head and secured it under the jaw with a series
of tightly-drawn knots. Again an unvoiced signal ran between
Dallo Chie and Delgadito. They moved back in a long jump,
and Victorio lay on his side, the hackamore firmly fitted to
his head.

Throughout the painful process, he had made no move to
resist.

The Old Apache grunted shortly. "Ah, so," he said softly.
"He did not lie ... that time. We will see if he spoke truly
of the other matter."

Again the white watchers exchanged startled glances, then
moved quickly back, as The Old Apache waved them to a
greater distance. He picked up the long rope attached to the
hackamore. "Dallo Chie," he said quietly, "bring to me the
whip from my horse." While the young man moved to obey,
he stood gazing into the stallion's eyes. He turned to face the
group, as a low gasp rose from them at the sight of the whip.

It was of braided rawhide, twelve feet in length, with a
heavy stock which tapered into the narrow lash. At the end of
the lash three smaller lashes were attached. These were six
inches long and were made of rawhide rolled to the thinness

* This is a technique known as "Earing down." Though painful to the horse,
it is most effective, and often the sole means of holding a particularly vicious
animal still.

80 MOUNTAIN STALLION

of heavy wire while still wet. Dry, they were as hard as wire,
though more flexible. In the hands of an expert, they could
flay the skin from an animal ... or a man. In Joto's hand, it
resembled a deadly snake with out-thrust fangs. Even motion-
less, it was a thing of cruelty.

The Old Apache flipped his wrist slightly, and the repulsive
goad writhed off the ground, its distant end looping, then
straightening. The wire-like lashes flicked out and rested
across the stallion's shoulders; but the animal did not move so
much as a muscle.

The Old Apache was all the while watching the faces of
his little audience. ''Did he move?" he asked softly, and there
was the shadow of a smile hovering around his deepset eyes.
When every head shook in denial, he spoke again in the same
soft voice. "Is it not strange he did not move? Is it not natural
for a wild thing to fear any new thing? Yet Victorio shows no
fear of this cruel lash." He paused, moving his white head up
and down. "Yes," he went on. "It is cruel. You are right. It is
very, very cruel. It could kill. It can cut the flesh from a horse
as easily as can a knife. I made it carefully, and perhaps you
will understand why in a very little while."

He turned back to the stallion and spoke to Ponce without
looking at him. "Let him up, my son. Untie the rope that
binds his feet. Do it without fear. He will not harm you."

Ponce moved forward, his eyes fixed on the gray giant who
lay as still as a stone. He was within two yards of the extended
legs when Barbara darted in front of him.

"No!" she cried in terror. "You must not do it, Ponce! He
will kill you!"

The Old Apache's voice reached out like a heavy hand and
whirled her around. "Get you gone! There is no danger!"

Barbara held her ground, staring back at Joto defiantly.
"But . . ." she began.

Her father's voice cut off her words. "Barbara," he called

"HE IS A KILLER!" 81

sternly, "come over here immediately. He knows what he's
doing."

"But . . ." Barbara repeated.

"I said come over herel" David Forrest said loudly. "If this
is the way you're going to act, you will stay home next time!"

The girl looked at Ponce, then at her father. Without fur-
ther protest, she stepped aside and returned to her place be-
tween her father and Gil Dreen.

Ponce took two steps, bent and commenced to work at
the tight knots. They did not come undone easily, and during
the time he crouched close to Victorio, he could feel the heat
rise from the stallion like air from a furnace. Twice he glanced
up, but Victorious head never moved. For all the attention he
payed the youth, the animal might have been completely
alone. Even when the last knot came loose and Ponce stepped
away, Victorio remained perfectly still. His wide-set, dark eyes
were fixed on The Old Apache.

Joto let a little slack into the long lead rope, then sent a
ripple running along it. Without any visible preparation,
Victorio doubled his legs under him, straightened them and
went to his feet in one flowing, catlike move. With his tall,
dark legs wide-planted under him, he stood facing The Old
Apache, his eyes still fixed unwinkingly on the slight, withered
frame.

A low murmur ran through the tense watchers, and no one
breathed for a long moment. What held them so still was the
massive stallion's complete motionlessness. That, and some-
thing else. For the first time, they noticed that those dark
eyes were utterly blank, and though no one had told them,
each knew that it was not normal, that stillness. They in-
stinctively moved closer together, feeling that sinister some-
thing in the air that Ponce had felt moments ago. It grew
more intense as the stallion continued to stand there, watch-
ing . . . and waiting.

The Old Apache said softly, "No one must come within the

82 MOUNTAIN STALLION

length of this rope, and no one must speak/' Then he turned
and started toward the corral, some hundred yards away. His
movements were slow and calm. Seemingly, he had forgotten
what was at the other end of the rope he held. He took one
step, two, and then he whirled in mid-stride, the whip rising
in his hand with a long, sharp whispering sound.

It whispered louder, sharper, then the fang-like lashes
darted downward, their tips raking through the thick hide of
the stallion's right shoulder and drawing three narrow lines of
crimson across the lathered surface. Knowing exactly what
would occur the instant he turned his back, The Old Apache
had whirled just as the stallion crouched and launched him-
self forward with deadly intent. Even as Victorio shrieked with
pain at the cut of the whip and plunged to a halt, the whip
snaked up and back a second time. Victorio reared, flailing
the air and shrieking again. The whip curled out, encircled the
front legs, and the horse, coming down, could not hold his
balance. His legs buckled, and he struck the ground on his side
in a choking, blinding cloud of dust.

For a full minute, The Old Apache stood there, watching
the animal's futile struggles, then his wrist flipped, loosening
the dark coils binding the forelegs. His face was completely
blank as he waited for the stallion to rise, and only he saw the
dark eyes blaze for an instant with the killing lust. Only for
an instant. They closed, and when they flicked open again,
they were blank and still. Victorio braced his legs, heaved him-
self erect and stood motionless.

To Ponce, watching the old man and the stallion, it was
clear that Victorio realized his mistake in acting too quickly.
It was equally clear that the gray had learned to fear The Old
Apache. It was not a nervous, quaking fear; but rather a fear
that would make him judge distance and his own timing more
carefully the next time. He would not make the same mistake
twice. When Joto turned again and started away, Victorio
followed at the end of the rope. He walked quietly, never

"HE IS A KILLER!" 83

moving his head, never hanging back. And his eyes did not
leave the figure of The Old Apache.

With measured strides, Joto paced across the level ground,
went under the trees and on through the corral's narrow gate-
way. Only then did Victorio hesitate. A quiver ran through
his frame, and he crouched lower, shuddering with terror.
But when the lead rope tightened again, he expelled a long,
slow breath that was like a sigh and followed The Old Apache
into the corral.

Joto paced on to the center of the enclosure where the stout
snubbing post stood. He turned and kept his eyes on the
stallion while he took two turns with the rope and tied it.
Starting for the gate, he went close to Victorio, and when
within ten feet of him, suddenly looked away. The long whip
trailed behind him in the dust, like a trained snake.

The gray had followed The Old Apache to within a dozen
feet of the snubbing post. As the man went past him, he stood
as still as a rock, staring straight before him. His move was too
swift for the eye to follow. He went into the air, switched
ends and came down, his haunches bunching and propelling
him forward like a catapult. He took one reaching stride. His
second would put him squarely upon the hateful man-creature
who had made the mistake of looking away from him. He was
in the air when the rope's slack gave out, and his hurtling,
twisting body described a soaring arc which ended in an earth-
shaking explosion as it struck the dust. His breath went out of
him in a bursting grunt that climbed to a scream of rage and
pain as the lash again stung the tender skin of his shoulder.

For a long moment he lay as motionless as death, and for
that endless run of time Ponce was certain the thick neck had
been broken in the fall. Then, through the drifting dust, he
saw the heavy body stir. The head lifted, the legs doubled, and
Victorio rose to his feet and stood watching The Old Apache.
And again his eyes were utterly blank.

Joto turned and walked to the gate. He waited until Del-

84 MOUNTAIN STALLION

gadito had secured it with heavy chains, then went to look
through the bars at Victorio. His voice, when he spoke after
a long time, was a low, soft murmur in the shocked silence that
hung over the group.

"He lied/' he said, not looking at anyone. "Do you know
why, my son?"

Ponce came up and stood beside him, gazing across the open
space at the wild stallion. "No, my father," he replied.

The Old Apache did not answer at once. When he did, he
still did not look at Ponce, and his voice held a note of regret,
almost of sadness. "Because, my son, he is a killer."

The vvay of the Stallion

-^ J

EVERYONE stayed close to the gate until late afternoon.
Time and again they crouched to peer through the thick bars
at the stallion standing like a dust-mantled statue in the center
of the corral. Even now, with the animal behind heavy, high
walls, they could not quite believe that the thing had hap-
pened. And always their eyes turned toward the dark, shrunken
form in the tattered blanket who never once left the gate nor
took his eyes from that great creature.

No one spoke of it aloud; but each was aware of the battle
of wills going on beween The Old Apache and Victorio. In
complete silence and without any movement at all, the two
cunning creatures fought with their eyes alone, darting, dodg-
ing and trying for one fatal opening in each other's defense.
Perhaps it was the strange silence of this which gradually be-
came so strongly felt by the others that they turned, when the
light began to fade, and moved toward the steep trail leading
to the ledge. They stopped when Joto spoke to them.

"Leave your horses, my friends. Tie them to trees close to
this gate, so that Victorio may come to know the scent of
horses that belong to man. Juan, when you bring grain for
them, bring also one piece of clothing from each person. The

85

86 MOUNTAIN STALLION

time for Victorio to know the taste of new smells is now,
while all is strange to him/'

Ponce remained with Joto. While the others went from
sight and dusk began to gather thickly in the valley, he studied
the tall gray. Every bone and muscle in his body ached. When
he moved, he had to grit his teeth to keep from moaning; but
these things were not the cause of his thoughtful silence.

He was confused, and he could not get his ideas straightened
out. He was experiencing the reaction which always follows on
the heels of high danger and excitement. Now that the race
was run and the prize was within reach of his hands, he grew
doubtful, and regret pulled strongly at him. It had started the
instant before he had thrown Desert Storm after Victorio and
had grown steadily since then. Seeing the proud stallion help-
lessly penned in by human hands, thrown to the ground and
cut by the whispering lash, he felt that a terrible wrong had
been committed. Who was he that he should rob Victorio of
his freedom? What did he hope to gain? Fame? Desert Storm
had brought him that, and he had never wanted it, except for
her. Money? He had money enough. And Desert Storm would
win more, if it were needed.

He shook his head, trying to dig deeper for the answer that
slid out of reach. All he knew finally was that he was no longer
sure of himself, nor of what he wanted.

As if reading his young companion's thoughts, Joto spoke.
"There is a darkness and a pain in you, is there not, my son?"

Ponce nodded without speaking. He had long since ceased
to be surprised at The Old Apache's ability to sense his every
thought and mood

"Even so it was with me one day, my son/' Joto said gently
"I will tell you."

"When I was young, long, long ago, there was a certain
young woman of my people whom I desired for a wife. There
was a second young man who wanted her also. Now, among
our people there was a custom which will make you tremble,

THE WAY OF THE STALLION 87

maybe. It was this: When a man wished to take a woman to
wife, he asked the woman, and she gave him the 'yes' or the
'no/ But even though it was for her to give the answer, that
did not mean that everyone would believe her. If another man
desired her, it must be that the two who had asked her must
fight, and to the winner the woman would give the 'yes' which
everyone would believe.

"When I spoke to this certain young woman, she gave me
the 'yes'; but there was another who desired her, and so, accord-
ing to the custom, I must fight him. Before I did that, I paced
the moon and the sun out of the sky three times. I did this
because there was in my heart a heaviness and a great doubt.
I was not certain that I wanted the young woman, though my
heart shouted that I loved her. Still, I hesitated. Still, I
doubted. Do you know why, my son?"

Ponce's reply was but a faint murmur in the dusk. "No, my
father."

"Because," said The Old Apache, "I was afraid."

Ponce turned, his eyes going to the dark face. In the half-
light the features were somehow smoothed out and clearer.
The leather-like skin seemed almost without wrinkles, and the
eyes were no longer sunken deep in their sockets. For one fleet-
ing moment, he gazed into a face that was again as it had been
when youth and strength had flowed through the withered
veins.

"Do you hear me, my son?" Joto said more loudly. "I, Joto,
tell you that I knew great fear. Though I desired the young
woman with every fibre of my being, I told myself that I did
not, and I did that because I feared to fight for her!"

The harsh, self-accusing tone changed, and Ponce knew
that he had heard words no one else had ever heard. His heart
pounded against his ribs with dull, throbbing strokes, and for
a moment he could not swallow.

"And did you then not fight, my father?" he asked.

The white head moved from side to side. "I won that fight,

88 MOUNTAIN STALLION

and I took the woman. When I did that, I knew that I had
done right to obey the law of the people. Only by risking my
life did I become free of doubt. And doubt, alone, my son,
can cause fear/'

For a long time neither spoke. Ponce's brain reeled with
the thing he had just heard. He knew the story had been told
him for a purpose, and while he suspected what that purpose
was, he hesitated to reach for it.

The silence ran on and on, and it was The Old Apache who
again broke it. "Have you no question, my son?" he asked
gently.

"Yes, my father/' Ponce answered. "Do my doubts come
from fear?"

"No," said Joto. "Your fear comes from your doubt. You
looked upon Victorio once and desired him so that you risked
your life to win him. Now you doubt your ability to break him,
and your fear lies in you, so deep that you could not find it."

"But is there no cause to fear him, my father? Will I win?"

Joto nodded. "There is cause. Good cause. As to the win-
ning ... I will tell you how it must be. You must . . ."

He broke off as low voices came from the foot of the distant
trail. "The others return," he said. "They do not want to be
away from Victorio. Good! We will wait until they are here.
Then I will tell you how it will be, and you will afterwards ask
each of them if Joto's words are straight."

Ponce lifted a hand in protest. "I have no need to ask an-
other if your words are straight, my father!" he said swiftly.
"I do not doubt your wisdom."

"You believe that . . . now," the ancient warrior growled.
"Now it is easy to say you believe. We will see how it is when
I have spoken."

Through the gathering darkness the voices came closer.
Presently the five white people and three Apaches came in
under the trees and drew up around the gate. Barbara stepped
close to Ponce.

THE WAY OF THE STALLION 89

"Here/ 7 she said, thrusting two thick sandwiches into his
hands. "I brought you your supper. We all brought our sleep-
ing bags, and we're going to stay here all night. I guess we're as
anxious to be near Victorio as you are. He might turn out to
be a ghost and disappear, if we ... look!"

Her loud cry turned all eyes toward the center of the corral,
and there was a low gasp from the little band of hunters as
they stared. The moon was starting its journey across the sky,
and in its faint light the gray stallion loomed up like the
ghostly being Barbara had mentioned. He was still facing the
gate, his head and tail held high, and his massive body stood
out sharply against the dark walls of the cliff. There was some-
thing unreal and frightening about him.

Joe Marino broke the silence. "Kinda gives you the creeps,
doesn't it? The way he stands there without movin' a muscle,
I'm glad that rope's on him. And I'm just as glad it's a good
stout one!"

Laughter rippled around the tight-pressed half circle, then
died as The Old Apache turned and put his back to the gate.
"My friends," he said in slow, exact English, "my son for
whom Victorio was taken captive would know what lies ahead.
I will tell him. Listen you carefully, and if any person among
you sees a fault in my words, let him speak."

He waited until the group was seated in a half circle on the
warm sand in front of him, then sank down cross-legged. In a
deep, musical voice, he began to speak, and the sound of his
voice was like the murmuring song of a mountain stream run-
ning through a dark cavern.

"The way of the stallion is not the way of other horses. Like
a great leader of men, the stallion goes always alone. And
always he looks closely at all things that lie along his path be-
fore trusting them. He must do this. Always there are those
that would strike the leader and bring him down and take his
place.

"The way of the stallion is the way of the warrior who must

90 MOUNTAIN STALLION

fight for his rights and for those he loves. In him is a great
hatred for anything that threatens his freedom and his strength
and his mares. In these qualities he is like man; but there the
likeness stops. His own sons he kills, if those sons do not flee
when first he senses in them the danger of the mating chal-
lenge. He does this because his sons would kill him, if their
strength were greater than his. It is the law of the stallion.

"We raise horses, all of us. We have stallions, and we trust
them; but there is no man here who would dare turn his
stallion loose on the desert or in the mountains. He would
flee from those he has loved all his life. Maybe he would
return, once . . . maybe twice . . . But if he was not captured
again, he would leave, and the warm memory of his early years
would be buried under the dust of time. He would not come
back, ever.

"You are saying The Iron Duke over there would not run
away. I would have you remember how it went this morning,
when he came face to face with Victorio up there beyond the
lake. He is a kind and gentle stallion, but he would have
thrown Joe Marino to the earth, and if Joe Marino had tried
to hold him, The Iron Duke would have trampled him to
death and gone to his own death at the hoofs and teeth of
Victorio. He would have fought bravely; but he has not the
strength and the cunning of wildness in him, as has Victorio.
He would have died; but if he had not, if he had killed the gray
stallion, he would then have taken the dead one's mares and
kept them, and he would have fought for them to the death.
That is the way of the stallion.

"His way is not the way of the mare. Once only Ponce struck
his Desert Storm in causeless anger, and she was like an inno-
cent girl-child whose father strikes her without cause. For
many days she trembled when she smelled him on the wind;
but she came to know that he had sorrow in him for the deed.
If that had happened again, she would have had a black fear
in her heart forever. This day you saw me twice draw blood

THE WAY OF THE STALLION 91

from Victorio with the whip. You did not see him leap away
in fear. There is no shadow of fear in him, and that is why I
now tell this young man who is as my own son what must be,
if he would make Victorio his own. And know you this, Vic-
torio's way is not the way of other stallions. It is more bad
than any I have known. In his mind there is a great black wall
behind which he hides. When you look into his eyes, you be-
hold this wall, and you know he is behind it, but you cannot
see him. Nor can you make him come out from behind it. He
does that only when he believes he can kill you and escape.
You saw him come out twice this day, and you saw him leap
behind it when he saw that he had failed to kill me. I have
seen walls in the eyes of other stallions. Once or twice it was
almost as dark and as thick as this one. But always I found a
tiny crack, a certain stone, and when the stone was removed,
the wall came down. All this day I have probed along the face
of the wall behind which Victorio hides. I can find no single
stone."

The deep voice stopped, and to Ponce, sitting tense and
breathless, it seemed that the wind rushed through the night
with greater violence than ever before. Dimly he heard Gil
Dreen say, "You've hit the nail on the head right down the
line, Joto." And David Forrest added, "I've never heard it put
so well." Then The Old Apache was speaking again, and Ponce
strained to hear every word.

"I do not know whether Victorio will ever cease to hate all
of us whom he has seen and smelled this day. If he could, he
would kill us all and grind our bones into the earth, and he
would kill every horse here, even the mares, because they have
on them the man smell. If he could, he would kill himself at
this moment, because there is on him the man smell, and he
knows man has made him less than he was before.

"There is in his heart the thing all stallions have, a will that
forever seeks to stand against the will of man. It must be
broken. Think not that his heart may break. There is no power

92 MOUNTAIN STALLION

that could do that. Nor will his spirit be broken, because the
spirit is in the heart, and while one still beats, the other lives.
The whip may break his will; but never his spirit. Know you
that And until that will lies shattered, the one certain stone
will never be seen at the bottom of the wall.

"This we will do.

"We will each day put Victorio into the stall made of logs,
and there we will bind him, and there Ponce will touch him.
He will never strike the stallion with his hands, for Victorio
must never know that the hands of Ponce can cause pain.
Always there must be a quietness and a coolness in the hands
of Ponce, and often while Victorio stands bound in the stall,
Ponce must stand before him and give him the touch of his
quiet voice and the steady gaze of his eyes. Never shall the
eyes hold doubt or fear or regret. Never must they hold any-
thing but the power of a will that is stronger than the will of
Victorio. Know you that

"After a time, all the bonds holding Victorio in the stall
will be taken off, except the hackamore and the one rope. And
still Ponce's hands and eyes and voice will go into Victorio,
searching through the darkness for the one certain stone.

"On a day, Victorio will come out from behind the wall.
Ponce will see him do that, and he will untie the rope holding
Victorio in the stall. On that day, Victorio will leave his stall
and pretend that he does not know that Ponce is before him.
He will pretend that there is in him the desire to be touched
by Ponce's hands. Ponce will have the whip, and he will watch
the eyes of Victorio, and when he sees the wall go up, he will
use the whip. Victorio will fear Ponce. He will fear him all
the while he is again put into the stall; but when the hands of
Ponce touch him with coolness, he will know that, though
Ponce has in him the power to wound, that power is used only
when he, Victorio, makes it necessary. And behind his wall he
will pace back and forth, thinking about that.

"Days will pass, and often Victorio will come out from

THE WAY OF THE STALLION 93

behind his wall, and often he will strike out at Ponce, then leap
back to safety when the whip tells him that Ponce knows about
the wall and is always waiting. He will do more and more
pacing and more and more thinking, and then one day he will
wonder what is the sense of hiding, if always he is seen coming
out into the open. He will think about that quite awhile.
Finally, he will say, 'The wall is no good. I can do nothing
when I am behind it, and I can not come out without being
seen. I will stop using that no-good wall/ When that happens,
Ponce will reach out and with a gentle hand take the certain
stone from the wall and throw it away, and the wall will
crumble.

"Victorio will not know that this has happened. Every once
in a while he will try to jump into that darkness; but it will
not be there, and he will be frightened. He will turn to Ponce,
asking him for help, and Ponce's hand will touch him, and he
will no longer want to hide. After many days, he will want to
follow Ponce wherever the young man goes, and when he is
alone, he will call for the young man to return. But even then,
he will often know anger, and he will often try to kill Ponce.
It is the way of the stallion.

"There will come the day when Victorio goes from this
valley into the world of man. He will know terror, and when
he smells another stallion, he will know again the desire to kill.
For a time, it will seem that all is lost; but by this time Ponce
will be riding him, and always he will wear sharp spurs and
always he will carry a heavy whip. When Victorio moves his
muscles a certain way, or turns his head a certain way, or moves
his body a certain way, the spurs will dig into his sides, and the
whip will tell him it is not wise to let his desire to kill be known
to Ponce.

"Soon he will be allowed to run, with Ponce showing him
how a good horse runs carrying a man. He will do this as
easily as he breathes; but always the spurs and the whip will be
with him and the gentle hands of Ponce, and he will do as

94 MOUNTAIN STALLION

he is told, because he will have learned a great respect for
Ponce.

"The battle will have ended, and Victorio will forever trust
Ponce and respect him and obey him. All this may be."

The voice ceased, and again the night wind roared through
the pines. There was a question beating at Ponce's brain; but
he dared not voice it in the presence of anyone except The Old
Apache. He wished suddenly for the others to take their sleep-
ing bags into the trees so that he might be alone with Joto
and ask the question; but The Old Apache was speaking again,
and the boy realized that he was answering that unspoken
question.

"Whether or not Victorio will ever feel love for Ponce, I
do not know. Nor do I know whether Ponce can ever trust
Victorio. It is for Victorio to decide. That is the way of the
stallion."

10

jNear~Ju atal jDeginning

THE following dawn found everyone up and peering
through the gate. There was a hushed nervousness in the air
as they saw the big stallion standing exactly where he had been
last night. Clearly, he had not moved during the dark hours,
for there were no tracks other than those made the previous
day. There was something strange and sinister in the way he
stood with lifted head, watching the narrow gate, as if waiting
for something he knew would come from there.

Gil Dreen's brows were knitted in a deep scowl as he studied
the distant animal. "If I wasn't more than half horse myself,"
he said slowly, "I'd keep my mouth shut. But that stud is no
more a cayuse* than The Iron Duke or Desert Storm!"

There was the sound of breaths being sucked in quickly,
and everyone turned toward the trainer. David Forrest said, "I
suspected the same thing when I saw him in full stride yester-
day. Everything about him shouts of hot blood . . . still . . .
it's too fantastic to be possible. A man just doesn't let blooded
stock go galloping off free as air, if he knows it."

"If he knows it!"

*A cayuse (KI-YOOS) is an Indian word applied to an inferior breed of
wild horses. Contrary to popular belief, cayuses and mustangs are not one and
the same. The mustang, now extinct, was usually larger than the cayuse, finer-
boned, sleeker of coat and swifter:

95

96 MOUNTAIN STALLION

The words echoed and re-echoed in Ponce's brain. His
breathing quickened, and he put out a hand to steady himself
against the corral, as the meaning shook him. "But/* he said,
trying to keep his voice steady, "what if it happened ... I
mean, what if he ran away and no one knew where he went?
That could have happened, couldn't it?"

David Forrest laughed and put a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Look, Ponce," he said, his gray eyes twinkling, "you've had
one miracle. It was impossible for Desert Storm to live, and
for her leg to stand up under the punishment it has taken on
the tracks. But it happened. That's no less than a miracle, be-
lieve me. You're not trying to 'wish' up another, are you?"

Ponce flushed, realizing the truth of the man's reasoning.
He dropped his glance to the ground. "No, Mr. Forrest," he
murmured. "It was a foolish thought. It could not be."

The man nodded; but immediately his forehead wrinkled
thoughtfully. "Still," he said, turning to Gil Dreen, "it's so
crazy, it's just possible, after all. If that stud is over four years
old and if he isn't a hot-blood, I'll give my stables to the first
redhead I meet."

Joe Marino had clambered onto the top log of the gate and
had been studying the dark dappled gray. With the eyes of
the born horseman, he took in the high, clean lines, the long,
curved neck, and the strongly-cut head and wide-set eyes. In
the silence following David Forrest's last statement, his voice
was unnaturally loud.

"That stud over there," he stated, "is a close relative of
Equipoise* or I'm a lion-tamer." He paused, letting his words
have their effect on his listeners, then went on in the same
definite tone. "I rode Equipoise more times than I can re-
member, and I know him like I know the Duke . . . maybe

* The famous Equipoise (the name means "perfectly balanced") was one
of the all-time greats of the track world. A split forefoot prevented him from
running in the Kentucky Derby in 1931; but as a four-year-old he raced with
phenomenal success, which did not falter until his retirement. Many of his get
are today proving his greatness as a sire.

NEAR-FATAL BEGINNING 97

better. If this stud isn't at least a grandson, 111 work free for
that redhead Mr. Forrest's going to give his stables to!"

David Forrest had known the Italian rider for several years,
and he knew that Joe Marino was not one to make wild state-
ments. Cockey, the slight man might be, at times even boast-
ful; but he had never known him to be mistaken about a
horse's breeding or quality. Even so, he was not prepared for
this. That any relative of the renowned record-breaker should
be found running wild through the high reaches of Arizona's
Mogollans was unthinkable. Still ... Joe Marino knew horses.
It was his often-proved boast that he could without hesitation
give the color, markings, age and lineage of any horse he had
ever ridden. Yes, Joe Marino knew horses. But this idea of
his ...

"That's a pretty strong statement, Joe," Mr. Forrest mur-
mured. "The stud fee on Equipoise was around $5,000, remem-
ber? I don't think anyone putting out that much money would
be likely to let the results slip through his hands."

Joe Marino was still studying Victorio. "I know what you
mean," he said, nodding. "But that stud over there is still a
mighty close relative of Old Battlin' Brown!"

Barbara entered the conversation at this point "Equipoise
was a dark brown," she stated. "He wasn't known to throw
grays."

The jockey's head bobbed again. "You're right, Barbara;
1 but do you remember . . . ? No, I guess you were too young . . .
but there was a tall gray filly that was shipped over from Ireland
in '38. Hagar was her name, and she . . ."

David Forrest's voice cut in swiftly. "Let's not talk about
Hagar, if you don't mind, Joe."

It was utterly unlike the man to interrupt another in that
way, and immediately everyone was looking at him in surprise.
They saw his face whiten, and his eyes darken, as if something
had suddenly sickened him and angered him at the same time.

Ponce knew something very wrong had happened to the tall

98 MOUNTAIN STALLION

horseman at mention of the filly's name. He had no idea what
it was; but when he glanced at Joe Marino, he saw that the
jockey knew; because the same look was on his sun-tanned
face, and Joe Marino was biting his lower lip, as if to recall
the words he had just uttered.

It was The Old Apache who broke the silence. "Think what
you want to think," he said mysteriously. "I know what I
know, maybe. Now we go to Victorio." He started to climb
through the bars; but David Forrest reached out and touched
him.

"Wait, Joto," he said in a tense voice. "What do you know?
Is it anything about what Joe just said?"

Joto looked slowly around at the man, his eyes dark and
blank. Watching him, Ponce suddenly thought of the wall the
old man had spoken of last night: Victorious wall. Now he saw
that the aged warrior had one too, and he was behind it now.

"When an Apache does not wish to talk/' said Joto, "he
says he knows nothing. Now I tell you I know nothing/'

He turned and slipped between the bars, leaving the others
looking at each other in puzzled surprise. On the other side, he
turned again and addressed them all. "When you wish, you
shall return to your homes. You have done your work well,
and we thank you, my son and I. If, after seven days have come
and gone, you wish to return and look upon Victorio again, do
that. It will be good for him to learn your smells again."

He stopped, drew a deep breath. When he spoke again, his
tone was hard, and he spaced his words very slowly and care-
fully.

"Speak to no one of what you have done and seen in this
place. Do you hear me? Speak no word of this."

He stood, giving each of them his direct attention for a
moment, then spoke in his usual guttural tone. "Delgadito,
Juan, Dallo Chie, Ponce . . . come you with me."

For a little while the five white people who had been left

NEAR-FATAL BEGINNING 99

at the gate stood looking at each other. Barbara asked suddenly,
"Do we have to go right now, Dad?"

"Well," answered her father with a slow grin, "Joto sa ^ we
could, if we wanted to. Personally, I'd like to stick around for
the first inning. How about the rest of you?"

There was immediate assent, and everyone crowded up to
the gate and stood there watching the five figures moving in
on the gray stallion.

It was the tall, soft-spoken Delgadito who went to the
snubbing post and untied the lead rope. He moved with the
lithe, animal grace of the hunter, his naked upper body glow-
ing like burnished copper in the sun. He knew exactly what
to do, and when he started in, he went within arm's reach of
Victorio. When he was even with the stallion's shoulder, he
suddenly took one long sidestep away.

Like a darting shadow Victorio's left forefoot struck at the
Apache, and his head snaked around as he started to strike
again. Quick as he was, the whip was quicker. In Joto's hand
it writhed up and out, and Victorio went into the air scream-
ing. He came down stiff-legged facing The Old Apache, and
it was clear to all that he knew from whence the pain had
come, though he did not know how it had happened. For one
split second his eyes blazed, then went blank and still. The
wall was up, and he was behind it.

Delgadito had not paused in his steady progress toward the
snubbing post, had not even glanced around when Victorio
struck. He untied the rope, tugged gently and walked toward
the bronco stall. Passing to one side of it, he reached the front
end, which was closed up with logs. There he lined the rope
up, to give a straight pull over the top log of the end, then
took a half-turn around a second snubbing post which stood
directly in front of the stall. Slowly he began to take in the
slack, his eyes quick and narrow on the approaching stallion.

Victorio obeyed the pull of the rope until he was within
fifteen feet of the stall's open end. He stopped then, his legs

TOO MOUNTAIN STALLION

stiffly braced, his head extended on his rigid, curved neck as
he dragged the smell of this new danger in through his flared
nostrils. All at once he began to shake violently. The mounds
of tense muscles along his shoulders and haunches bunched
and crawled as if they possessed a life of their own. Sweat
sprang out to lay a glistening sheen over the dark gray body
and to drip steadily into the thick dust. Like a great crouching
cat he squatted there in the sunlight. Then, as the rope grew
taut, he went into explosive, terror-driven action.

He reared high, trying to throw himself backwards; but the
rope jerked him instantly down, and when he found himself
closer to the stall by some three feet, he lunged back, scram-
bling frantically in the loose dirt. He crouched so low that he
was all but sitting down, and his wicked head sawed wildly
back and forth, trying to whip slack into the rope that hummed
from the strain. He could not get that precious inch of slack.
He realized it, and instantly changed tactics. He stood some-
what straighter and jerked back in rapid, evenly-spaced jumps.
Still the rope held; still it shortened. With every movement of
the stallion, Delgadito took inch after inch of freedom from
him, drawing him inexorably toward the open end of the stall.

No one had spoken throughout the brief, bitter struggle. A
death-like stillness hung over the corral, so heavy it seemed to
hold down the billowing, spurting clouds of dust that rose
around the distant stall. But when Victorio found himself al-
most within the narrow chute, he went stark, raving mad, and
his bull-like bellowing and broken shrieks struck through the
silence like flaying hands. He went into the air, switching ends
with a flipping, rolling motion, and fought to pull straight
away. Time after time he gathered himself and lunged, and
time after time the rope tightened with a loud, whining sound
and snapped him end over end in a ground-shaking fall. His
breathing was a harsh cry, and his dappled hide grew red with
a thick coating of dust that was turned into mud from the
sweat and lather.

NEAR-FATAL BEGINNING 101

Delgadito ceased trying to take up the slack. It was better
to let the stallion tire himself out than to force him into the
stall. Feeling the thick snubbing post sway and quiver with
the strain of the stallion's weight, the young Apache began to
wonder if the stall were as capable of withstanding Victorious
struggles as everyone had believed. He took a second turn
around the post and stood waiting for Victorio to exhaust
himself. From the still expression on his face, no one could
tell whether he felt sympathy, disgust, or fear for that rearing,
striking mass of fury. Only Joto knew what lay behind that
smooth face, and because he knew, he had chosen Delgadito
as his chief assistant.

Untouched by the softer emotions known to many of his
tribesmen who had lived close to the White Man, Delgadito
had the perfect disposition to work with Victorio. He was
neither unkind nor cold-blooded; but he possessed the two
qualities necessary in a tamer of wild horses a complete in-
difference to fear, pain and anger, and that mysterious, animal-
like knowledge of wild things. He knew horses better than he
knew people. He could perform that often-described-but-sel-
dom-believed feat known as "Talking a horse down/'* With-
out shame, Delgadito had confessed last night that he did not
know how to tame Victorio could not make the stallion hear
his voice. Still, his knowledge of horses was such that Joto had
immediately decided he was the only one to work with Vic-
torio, except Ponce.

Now the lithe Apache stood calmly waiting for the gray to
tire. At the end of a half hour, the driving lunges shortened, the
falls came less frequently, and the post ceased to quiver and
bend. At last Victorio rose slowly from the dust and stood on

* An all-but-lost art today, "Talking a horse down" consists of "the talker"
entering the corral and talking to the wild horse. He neither ropes the animal
nor touches it; but talks on and on in a calm, understanding tone. It is an
established fact that good "talkers" can have the wildest of horses following
them about the corral in a matter of minutes. The Navajos are especially gifted
in this art. Rarely have white men succeeded as "talkers."

102 MOUNTAIN STALLION

shaking legs, facing the stall. When that happened, Delgadito
once again began to exert a steady pull on the rope. When
Victorio leaned against it, all but sitting down a second time,
Delgadito lifted a hand in a brief signal.

The Old Apache, seeing the signal, spoke to Juan and Dallo
Chie, who picked up a long lasso and started around behind
the stallion, one on either side. They payed out the lasso
between them, and when they were even with Victorious
shoulders, they tightened the rope until its center section
touched the crouching stallion's rump. It was as utterly pain-
less as a drifting feather would have been; but at the touch,
Victorio leaped five feet into the air, screaming as if a flaming
torch had been thrust against him.

When the dust cleared, Victorio was standing less than three
feet from the stall. He stood there, snorting and shaking, until
the rope again brushed his rump. His second wild leap landed
him squarely between the thick logs, and before he could
move, Delgadito had taken up the slack and Juan and Dallo
Chie had lifted the heavy bar and dropped it into place across
the rear of the stall.

It had seemed that the battle was over; but when the stallion
found himself prevented from moving either forward or back-
ward, he went mad again. A convulsive strike of his hind legs
sent the log bar whirling end over end through the air, to fall
twenty feet away, and the stout walls groaned and shook under
the impact of the lunging, whipping mass of horseflesh.

Dust boiled thickly around the stall. Calls ran back and
forth among the three Apaches, and now and then one of
them could be glimpsed, darting in and out of the reddish
haze. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the battle ended.
The dust cleared, and Victorio stood sucking air into his
nostrils in great draughts. His head was pulled far over the
front end of the stall, the heavy bar was again in place behind
his rump, and stout ropes were crossed back and forth over his

NEAR-FATAL BEGINNING 103

back, to prevent him from rearing. It was impossible for him
to move more than a few inches in any direction.

The Old Apache spoke to Ponce. "Now, my son, go you and
let your hands cool the fires that rage in him, and let your voice
take the darkness from his heart."

He noticed how intently the young man was looking at the
distant stallion. With his understanding of others, he knew
what was going on inside Ponce's mind, and he said gently,
"My son, go now to your friends at the gate. Ask each of them
if it be the right thing or the wrong thing we are doing to
Victorio." The large, expressive eyes lifted quickly to Ponce,
and he smiled one of those rare smiles that seemed to change
his whole being. "You would believe me, if you could, my son.
I know that, and I have no anger nor pain in my heart, because
I know how it is when one must be right beyond all doubt.
Go you and ask them."

Ponce's mouth was open. He started to speak, to deny his
need for anyone else's word concerning the way Victorio
should be handled; but suddenly he whirled and walked swiftly
to the gate. "My friends," he said, when he stood before them,
"do not think me a child, but I must be very sure that this is
not a bad thing we do with Victorio. Tell me, each of you,
your thoughts. Mr. Gabe?"

The elderly rancher, like Joto, knew what was troubling his
young friend. He said quietly, "Breakin' the wild ones isn't
ever a pretty sight, son. But it can't be done just by vtantiri the
horse to be good. Your friends over there are as kind as any
I've ever seen."

Ponce looked at Joe Marino. "Joe?"

"I don't know much about wild horses, Ponce," the jockey
said honestly. "I know about studs, though, and I know you've
got to teach them whose boss in a way they won't forget.
You've got yourself a red horse, if you do what they tell you."

The young Apache nodded, then swung his glance to David
Forrest. "Mr. Forrest?"

104 MOUNTAIN STALLION

The tall horseman did not hesitate. "Every single word Joto
said last night about stallions was as straight as a die, son. If
you follow his instructions, you'll make a great horse out of
that gray and a happy one."

"Mr. Dreen?"

The stocky trainer cleared his throat noisily. "I go along
with Mr. Forrest ioo%," he stated. "I don't hold with need-
less whipping of horses, as you know, and I've never let any
of my riders get too fond of one, either; but there have been
times I've hauled more than one rambunctious colt to his
knees and taught him who was boss. If you want that gray
stud to be a horse you can ride, you do just what Joto tells you
to. He'll come around."

At last Ponce turned to Barbara. "What are your thoughts,
Barbara?"

She swallowed, licked her lips and glanced nervously around,
as if feeling suddenly all alone. Suddenly she shook her head,
and her words tumbled out in a flood. "I don't know, Ponce!
I just don't know! Yes, I do, too! I know they're right, all of
them. They know more about horses than I'll ever know only
I know how you feel, too, and I feel the same way only "

She paused, out of breath, then nodded violently. "Go on,
Ponce!" she cried. "Do what they say. I know it'll be all right.
I know it will!"

Ponce faced the anxious group a moment longer, nodding
slowly, as if admitting something he had known all along but
had not accepted. "I thank you," he said, and turned back
toward the stall; but Gil Dreen's voice halted him for a
moment.

"You do what Joto tells you," the trainer said softly. "And,
son ... I don't think you'll have to use that whip very much."

Ponce's instant smile changed his whole face as he turned
and flashed a look of gratitude to the trainer. In all the talk
about breaking Victorio, these were the first words that held
forth the hope that the punishing part might not be too drawn

NEAR-FATAL BEGINNING 105

out. He said in a suddenly-expelled breath, "Thank you, Mr.
Dreen!" and ran toward the bronco stall. As he ran, the weight
which had settled in the pit of his stomach when he had first
glimpsed Victorio bound and helpless the day before began
to lift.

He slowed to a walk twenty feet from where the gray stallion
stood quivering in the confines of the stall. Slowly he ad-
vanced, going along the low wall. He stopped halfway to Vic-
torio's head. For the first time since his capture, he was
standing within reach of the animal, and the experience sent
waves of chills running up and down his spine.

He had judged Victorio to be somewhat larger than Desert
Storm perhaps even slightly taller and heavier than The Iron
Duke; but clearly the stallion stood over seventeen hands. Just
as clearly, he weighed not less than 1200 pounds. His hands
grew damp as he took in the massiveness of the gray. The thick,
cable-like muscles stood out in long, high ridges along the
shoulders and spine and hind quarters. Even under the thick
coating of clay, they could be seen rigidly set, as if carved from
stone. Only the upper third of the body was visible above the
logs; but that was enough to show Ponce that Victorio was a
giant among horses. Almost, he appeared heavy; but immedi-
ately the boy remembered that long, floating action that had
kept The Iron Duke and Last Laugh at a safe distance and had
demanded Desert Storm's full speed, even after an eight-mile
run. No, that massive bone structure and those layers of thick
muscles were deceptive. Victorio was not heavy on his feet

Ponce went closer to the side of the stall, lifting one hand;
but The Old Apache's voice stopped him.

"That hand is not cool!" Joto snapped. "It is wet and hot.
Get you away!"

Ponce dropped his arm and leaped back, as if stung. He
flushed darkly and drew both hands across his thighs, then
turned them, palm-up, to the sun. He gritted his teeth, trying
to prevent more perspiration from oozing out. Then he re-

106 MOUNTAIN STALLION

laxed gradually. The palms remained dry, and when he put
them to his face, they felt cool. He smiled. The first part of
the test was safely past. Now . . .

"Come you here/' Joto commanded quietly. When Ponce
obeyed, he went on. "Go you to Delgadito and take from him
the rope. We will leave you alone with Victorio. He will see
you and will draw the smell of you deep into him. You see how
the rope pulls his head forward and down? It hurts him and
keeps him from moving. He will know it is you who relieve his
discomfort, if you move your hands clearly as you loosen the
rope ever so little. That will surprise him. It will also please
him, and he will start to fight again, thinking he is going to get
free. If he does not fight, something is wrong, and you will do
well to watch him very, very closely. Talk to him. All the time,
talk to him. It makes no difference what words you say. It is
only the sound of your voice he will come to understand at
first. When he stops fighting, go then and put your hands
upon his shoulder. Be you certain the rope is not slack enough
for him to be able to reach you with his teeth. If he tries to
bite you . . ."

He broke off and slipped the loop of his riding whip off his
wrist. It was an ordinary whip, some three feet long and made
out of braided rawhide with but a single lash extending from
the stock. Joto handed it to Ponce. "Here. If he attempts to
bite you, use it. Hit him across the muzzle. That will make him
fight some more, so you will wait until he grows quiet before
touching him again. Do this now and remember . . . Do not
trust him. And last . . . Do not let any slack come into the
rope"

Slowly Ponce moved around the end of the stall and took
the rope from Delgadito. The man stepped back and moved
soundlessly away. The next moment, Ponce realized he was
completely alone with Victorio. He stood there looking at the
head wrenched down toward the base of the snubbing post at
that stretched, uncomfortable angle. Clearly the stallion real-

NEAR-FATAL BEGINNING 107

ized the hopelessness of further struggling. Clearly he was de-
feated. The minutes wore on, and little by little Ponce began
to feel pity for the great animal.

With slight surprise, he noticed that Victorio was not pay-
ing any attention to him. The large, dark eyes were seemingly
glued to the thick snubbing post, a foot from his red-rimmed
nostrils.

"Victorio," Ponce murmured in a voice that was like the
caress of a gentle hand. "Victorio, will you not look at me?
See? My hands are on the rope now, the hands that first
touched you, but never harmed you. They will never cause you
pain, Victorio/'

The stallion's gaze did not waver, the lids did not flicker,
and the small pointed ears were flattened against the wicked
head. The breath whistling in and out of the nostrils was like
the blast from a furnace across Ponce's chest and face.

"Victorio," he said in that caressing voice. "Will you not
look at me. Will you . . ."

He broke off suddenly, realizing what the stallion was star-
ing at

The snubbing post!

With sudden insight, he knew that the post was, in the
stallion's mind, a thing of unspeakable horror. He knew also
that the limited intelligence of a horse could not possibly have
so quickly taught Victorio that a snubbing post was the cause
of his helplessness. Yet Victorio knew! His terror rose from
his lathered body like a dense fog. And through this fog Ponce
groped and found the answer.

Victorio had been snubbed to a post before! He knew what
it stood for. And he had suffered because of it. Only that
could explain his present attitude, his complete unawareness
of Ponce's presence.

On the point of signaling to The Old Apache to tell him of
the discovery, Ponce hesitated. After all, he reminded himself,
he could be mistaken. If Victorio had feared the post, would

108 MOUNTAIN STALLION

not Delgadito have seen it? That one knew horses like no
other man, so it was said. Still . . . the certainty of being right
was in Ponce, prompting him to loosen the rope and so ease
the stallion's pain. It grew stronger and stronger, and at last it
moved his hand, almost without his knowing, and the rope
slipped. Dimly, the young man realized that he was disobeying
The Old Apache's last warning. But, he was so certain . . .

"Victorio," he said softly, "you have fear of this thing, have
you not? Then, see how I take away the cause of your great
pain?"

He slackened his grip, and the rope slipped farther, giving
the stallion more room. Slowly the thick neck lifted, assuming
its natural curve. When the head was again comfortably set,
the stallion drew in a long, quivering breath, as if not quite
believing the pain was gone. True, the mounds of muscles
along the shoulders and withers did not relax; but that would
come soon, Ponce knew. He knew it beyond all doubt when
the wide-set eyes moved ever so little in their sockets and
looked straight at him. No glint of fire showed in their depths.
They were as liquidly soft and gentle as Desert Storm's.

The answer came to Ponce with shocking suddenness. The
others were terribly wrong about the way to handle Victorio!
They had seen only his bigness and his great strength made
fearsome by terror. They did not know that he wanted af-
fection and understanding: that he would follow the hand of
kindness, but that he would never be driven by the whip. Yet,
all this was plainly seen in that single look the stallion had
turned on him.

With regret for all that had already happened to his great
, animal, Ponce responded to the plea in the dark eyes. He said,
"See, Victorio? I touch you, and you feel no . . ."

The next instant he was screaming in terror and agony as
he felt himself lifted from the ground and shaken as a rat is
shaken by a dog. At his first forward movement, the stallion

NEAR-FATAL BEGINNING 109

had darted his head around and fastened his big yellow teeth
in the bared shoulder of Ponce.

Wave after wave of white-hot fire streaked through the
boy's left shoulder where the teeth were grinding into the hard
muscle. He writhed and kicked and lashed out with the whip
at Victorious shoulder; but he was helpless in the grip of those
vice-like jaws. Through a swirling fog, he glimpsed the three
young Apaches racing toward him, followed by The Old
Apache, whose mouth was opening and closing soundlessly.
The fog thickened. He felt himself being flung back and f orth
through the darkness, and he heard his voice going on and on,
tearing through his throat in that endless scream. Dimly he
saw Delgadito rush in, dimly saw the long lash rising and
falling in the young man's hand. And Dallo Chie and Juan
were two streaking shadows as they came in and fastened claw-
like fingers in the stallion's nostrils and twisted with all their
strength to force him to release his hold.

The bood-flecked mouth opened, and Ponce crumpled to
the sand under the darting, striking head. He did not lose
consciousness entirely. Unable to rise, unable even to crawl
away, he lay against the logs, choking on the thick dust struck
up by the two struggling Apaches. Through that blinding,
reddish haze he saw the men lifted off their feet repeatedly as
they clung to the streaming nostrils of the maddened stallion
who flung himself back and forth in an attempt to shake
them off. And then quick hands grasped his ankles and
dragged him to safety.

Even when Juan and Dallo Chie released their holds and
darted back, Victorio continued to lunge against the logs of
the stall, trying to reach the motionless body ten feet away.
He was a raging demon with one thought fixed in his brain.
Murder!

The swirling mists cleared for an instant, and Ponce looked
up at that striking, darting head in which the eyes blazed like
living fires. He closed his eyes, moaning with pain, and rolled

110 MOUNTAIN STALLION

over onto his stomach, sickened by the sight. His guilt rushed
through him, turning him onto his side. When he looked up,
The Old Apache was standing over him, his face gray and
drawn, his black eyes holding an accusation.

"My father/' said Ponce, gasping as new waves of fire raked
through his shoulder. "I forgot about the wall. Even with your
words still in my ears, I forgot about the wall . . . and ... I
trusted him,"

11

The Apache vVa

IF THE five white people thought Ponce's injury would
keep him out of the corral for any length of time, they were
shortly to learn otherwise. During that first hour, while the
young man ground his teeth together to keep from crying
out with the pain of his torn and bruised left shoulder, they
began to think the ancient one slightly less than human. Not
understanding the code by which the Desert People lived, they
could not understand his attitude toward Ponce.

Never once did Joto speak to the boy, except to order him
to lie quietly while he rubbed some evil-smelling salve into
the deep wound and bound it with strips of cloth. Plainly his
displeasure outweighed any gentler thought or feeling. When
the shoulder was securely tied, he turned and walked away
through the trees to a spot somewhat removed. Halfway there,
he wheeled, saw the three young riders still beside the youth
and shouted harshly to them. When they followed him, he
motioned for them to be seated, and the four of them squatted
cross-legged on the sand. Silence came in under the pines.

This treatment had a calculated effect upon Ponce. He felt
no resentment, betrayed no outward pain; but liis sensitive
feelings were cut to the quick. At first, he wanted nothing so
much as to crawl away and die, out of sight of those hard, ac-

lll

112 MOUNTAIN STALLION

cusing eyes. This being out of the question, he wanted to
explain why he had done as he had. But this, too, was out of
the question. The one who must be made to understand was
the very one who would not listen.

Hurt and despondent, the young man put his mind to the
business of winning back the thing his carelessness had lost.
He did not doubt for an instant the ancient warrior's love for
him; but he knew that his disregard for Joto's carefully-worded
instructions had cost him The Old Apache's respect and trust.
And that he must have.

For an hour he lay under the trees outside the corral. A
little distance away, his five white friends stood looking at him
and conversing in low, puzzled tones. Over there, close to the
wall, the Apaches squatted, also talking in low voices. From
time to time, Ponce saw one of the young men looking in his
direction, and he was quite certain their black eyes held under-
standing, if not sympathy. Once those voices grew suddenly
loud, and he realized with alarm that Joto and Delgadito were
quarreling. Clearly he could hear the young horse wrangler
shout angrily, then saw him leap to his feet and start toward
him. The handsome face was dark and set, and Delgadito did
not pause when The Old Apache called loudly, "Come back
here, you Delgadito!"

The wrangler came over and squatted down beside Ponce.
"How is it, little brother?" he asked in a voice that was so
gentle that Ponce could not at first believe it belonged to him.
"Is there a thing you would have me do to ease the pain?"

Sick though he was, Ponce still realized what a big thing
the stalwart rider was doing in ignoring The Old Apache's
command to stay away from him. Among his people, the law
lay in the hands of the elders. The young men listened and
obeyed, usually without question. To show disrespect for an
elder's words was to earn the name of "social outcast," or
"rude one." To disobey Joto was nothing less than criminal.
It was not done.

THE APACHE WAY 113

Yet, Delgadito was doing it. Fully aware of what his action
would cost him in prestige and dignity among his own people,
he had come to the injured boy. And his hands that could
wield the whip with such deadly skill were cool and gentle as
they pushed the tangled hair away from Ponce's mud-caked
face.

"Is it in your heart to let the stallion go free, little brother?"
he asked in that gentle tone. "Say you the 'yes' and I will do
it, whatever The Great Joto may say or do. He is made of
stone, that one."

Ponce rolled his head from side to side. "No, big brother,"
he answered. "He knows it was I who did a wrong thing. I did
not remember his words well. I believed that I knew more
about Victorio than you, even."

"You have not our years," Delgadito said. "Every man car-
ries with him the memory of a foolish deed. It is better for
one to remember what one is told." He paused to reach out a
bronze forefinger and gently touch the thick bandage. His
eyes held a glint of humor. "It is also less painful sometimes,
maybe. But when one sees a brave man lying half dead because
of his courage, it is no time for hard looks and cold words. I
don't care what The Great Joto says."

Again Ponce rolled his head back and forth. "I will not
forget again, big brother. I think that is what The Great Joto
knows. Maybe Victorio and I are alike. We must both know
pain before we will have wisdom."

Delgadito's narrow black eyes stared down at his young
kinsman for a long moment, then his teeth flashed whitely in
his dark face, and he reached out and gripped Ponce's right
hand tightly. "You are wiser than I," he stated. "I call you
'brother' now, not little brother/ So be it." He rose to his full
height and faced the distant Apaches. His sudden shout was
both loud and angry. "All right, Great Joto!" he yelled. "Your
eyes saw the thing as it is, and I was wrong! Will you forever
hold your silence over our brother then?"

114 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Joto had been crouched in the shade, glaring at them. With
Delgadito's sudden shout, he sprang to his feet, laughing out-
right. "Ha!" he shouted back. "You, Delgadito, think you
know so much! Maybe you keep your mouth shut next time!"

The lithe rider flushed. "Maybe," he yelled back. "Maybe I
will do that! But maybe I will speak what is in my heart, in-
stead of hiding it under dark looks, like some old men I know!"

Ponce tried to rise. Alarm was leaping through him again.
Would that Delgadito never learn manners? He knew better
than to quarrel with a man of The Old Apache's position;
yet there he stood, yelling rude things into Joto's very face,
almost! Everyone in the country would hear about this, and
certainly Delgadito would hear about it for the rest of his life.
Everyone would point at him and say, "There is Delgadito, The
rude One, he who called The Great Joto a mean old man to
his very face!' If only he would be quiet now, before it was
really too late!

"Do not fight with him, Delgadito!" Ponce urged the hand-
some rider. "Do not make him angry! It can do no good!"

At the words, Delgadito threw his head back and burst into
laughter. "He is not angry!" he said. "I am! I don't like being
wrong, and he knows it. That is why he is laughing at me!"

It was true. The Old Apache, coming through the grove,
was laughing, though no sound came from his working mouth.
He went to Delgadito and slapped the broad, bare back.
"Now, wise one," he said, "go you back to the corral and talk
your so wise talk to Victorio. We will come soon."

The barely-averted quarrel was over. Ponce drew a great,
relieved breath; but instantly he started up again as Delgadito
turned wide, disbelieving eyes on him, then glared at Joto.
"You are not going to bring Ponce . . ." he began, then
clamped his teeth together against further speech and strode
furiously away. He motioned for Juan and Dallo Chie to come
with him, and a moment later the trio climbed over the gate
and disappeared inside the corral.

THE APACHE WAY 115

The Old Apache stood there for a moment, laughing sound-
lessly, then turned an amused glance downward. Immediately,
all his mirth left him, and his eyes became as cold as ice. "Get
up," he commanded.

Without a word, Ponce braced his one sound arm on the
sand, rolled and struggled to his feet. He swayed and stag-
gered . . . and went to his knees. The pines and ground and
nearby corral whirled crazily, blended together and began to
fade; but the cold voice cut through his reeling senses.

During the past hour, the white people had stood off to one
side, held away from Ponce by something they did not under-
stand. Without addressing them directly, The Old Apache
had clearly indicated to them that they had no part in this.
It had happened to an Apache and would be dealt with by
Apaches. Sharply, cleanly, he had drawn the line separating
his tribesman from his friends for this brief interval. And the
friends respected the boundary marker, because they were
friends.

But when Ponce was ordered to his feet, only to collapse
weakly, Barbara could stand it no longer. She took instant,
violent action. She darted through the trees and went to her
knees beside the boy and steadied him with her hands. 'This
is cruel!" she cried, looking squarely up into The Old Apache's
cold eyes. "J us * plain cruell Can't you see he's too weak to
stand? What are you trying to do? Kill him?' 9

The Old Apache's gaze did not waver; but the faintest
shadow drifted through the black eyes. Only one experienced
in reading the eyes of an Indian could have seen that shadow
and known its meaning. Barbara was not that experienced
person, and so she could not know that Joto was smiling down
at her without moving a muscle of his granite-like face.

He waited until the others had come up and David Forrest
had ungenfly dragged his daughter to her feet and away to a

116 MOUNTAIN STALLION

respectful distance. Then his lips moved, letting his dry,
guttural voice come out.

"Like all girl-children, this one listens to her heart, instead
of to the words of her elders. I speak to her now, so that she
will turn her eyes inward and look at this thing calmly.

"This young man . . . this Ponce . . . saw the stallion Vic-
torio and desired to possess him. For this I let him come and
call upon you, his friends. For this I called upon three of our
people who know the way of horses. For this we have all
taken our lives in our hands.

"Ponce is an Apache, and he knows that when one is told
a thing, one remembers that thing, or suffers. All of you sat
here last night and listened to me; yet none of you listened to
me as closely as did Ponce. His breath stopped in his throat
while I spoke. That was how he listened. Not an hour ago, I
told him each thing he was to do and each thing he must not
do. The last thing I said to him was, 'Do not let slack come
into the rope, and do not trust Victorio/ Yet, with these words
not yet cold in his ears, he does the two things I commanded
him not to do."

He paused, cocking his white head to one side and re-
garding Barbara out of eyes that were distinctly twinkling.
"What happens to you, Barbara Forrest, when you forget the
wise words of your father and your mother?"

This was so unexpected that, for a moment, Barbara merely
stared. Then she flushed and dropped her gaze. "Well," she
answered slowly, "I used to get punished good and proper; but
not any more. Now, they cut off my allowance or forbid me
to go near the stables or make me do all the housework,
or . . ." She broke off, then said loudly, "But they don't make
me get up, if I'm too sick and weak to move!"

Joto's lips twitched faintly. "No," he said gently, "they do
not. But then . . . they are not Apaches."

"What differences does that make?" Barbara flashed.

THE APACHE WAY 117

"All the difference/' Joto replied, still in that quiet tone.
"We are all people; but each race and each tribe must hold
to its own customs and beliefs, or they will cease to be indi-
viduals. The Navajos and The Apaches are Indians; but they
are not alike. We do not weave rugs, and they do not know the
art of hunting. You make music with your fingers on that thing
called the 'piano'; but you cannot make talk with the smoke
from fire. You sit in the thing called a 'car' and guide it swiftly
across the ground; but you cannot make the hide of a deer as
soft as velvet. Each of us does the thing he has learned to do,
and that is what makes us what we are.

"Ponce is part White, because he has dwelt among you and
learned some of your ways. But he is part Apache still, and I
want him to be like the best of his people. If he must suffer
to grow, then I will make him suffer. Think you not I have
pleasure in this. Each pain he knows, I know also. . . . Maybe
it is worse for me, even . . . Because always I have the knowl-
edge that I am the cause of his pain. Yet, when all is said and
all is done and I can look upon him as he stands a man, my
joy and my pride will be greater than the pain I now know.

"Because Ponce has disobeyed my words, he will rise and
go now with me to Victorio. He will do that because he knows
in his heart the wrong he has done. The taming of Victorio
cannot stop, cannot wait. If Ponce falls to the ground, then
will I drag him to the stall, and there will I let him lie, because
Victorio must come to know the smell of him through all the
days and nights to come.

"If you cannot believe my words, if you cannot bear to look
upon his suffering, then go you away, Barbara. It may be that
you could not believe me, even if you would. If that be so, I
have sorrow for it. You have in you a beauty and a gentleness.
When you add strength and wisdom to those, you will be a
woman ... a good woman."

He was silent, looking deep into Barbara's eyes. What he

118 MOUNTAIN STALLION

read in the brown depths pleased him, and he grunted low in
his throat and nodded. Then he moved over and bent to place
a hand under Ponce's right arm. He said gently, "My son,
stand beside me now/' And when Ponce slowly rose, he turned
and led the boy toward the corral.

12

Time Stood Still

ALL that afternoon, The Old Apache seemed preoccupied.
Time and again he sank down cross-legged on the sand and
buried his chin on his chest, as if about to doze off, only to
rise and pace back and forth. From time to time his lips moved
silently, his head shook impatiently, and his hands struck each
other, as if in anger. He spoke to no one, looked at no one. He
shut them all away from him as effectively as if he had entered
a room and closed the door behind him.

When Barbara and Gabe had the supper laid out on the
blanket that served as a table under the trees, the girl went to
find him. Some distance back in the grove, she ran across the
prints of his moccasins in the sand and followed them at a trot.
She skidded to a halt suddenly, as Joto appeared, seemingly
out of nowhere, and held up a hand in a warning gesture. She
opened her lips; but closed them on silence as the thin hand
waggled commandingly. Puzzled, she stood there looking at
him; but when the hand motioned her back whence she had
come, she turned and ran.

Reaching the fire, she related her experience, finishing with:
"So I suppose we'd just as well go ahead and eat without him."

Delgadito looked up from the bridle he was repairing. "He is
listening for something," he stated quietly.

119

120 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"What?"

"I know not. He will tell us when and if he sees fit to do so,
perhaps."

They ate. Afterwards they sat around the fire talking, mostly
about Victorio and his murderous attack upon Ponce, and
about the seemingly impossible task of breaking the mountain
stallion. When the fire was a bed of coals, they retired to their
sleeping bags and blankets. And still The Old Apache had not
returned from his wanderings and meditations.

Beneath a tree, Ponce moved uneasily in his blankets, trying
without success to find a favorable position for his injured
shoulder. At last he dropped into fitful slumber, but awoke
from time to time and lay staring up through the interlaced
branches at the fleecy clouds scudding before the night wind.
Once he thought he heard voices somewhere far back in the
trees; but when he raised himself slightly and turned his head
that way, he could hear nothing but the wind crying through
the jagged escarpment rimming the valley.

He slept again, and when he awakened, it was from the
touch of a hand on his shoulder and a voice saying, "Follow
me, my son." He was instantly on his feet, as alert as if he had
not slept at all.

A few yards away, he glimpsed The Old Apache, bending
over his tribesmen. He heard no sound, but the three young
men promptly rolled from their blankets and followed Joto
and Ponce went with them. On noiseless feet they stepped
around the forms of the sleeping white people, heading for
the corral.

"He has heard something or seen something or learned
something . . ." Ponce thought, "something important. He
moves with the strength and the swiftness of youth. Suddenly
he has become someone I have never seen before."

At the corral gate, The Old Apache halted and waited for
the others to come up. When he spoke, his voice was star-
tlingly loud, his words quickly uttered.

WHILE TIME STOOD STILL 121

"Listen you well. I must not waste words, for the thing is
upon me, and I know not how long it will stay. All this day
I have tried to remember a thing. Just now it came to me."
He paused, looked at each of them in turn, then announced
in a harsh whisper, "I have the voice!"

As one man, the three Apache riders sucked in their breath
and tensed, their eyes becoming riveted to the ancient warrior.

"You?" Dallo Chie whispered in awe. "You, my father, are
one of those?"

"Once," Joto replied, nodding quickly. "Maybe twice . . .
It was a long time ago . . . long, long ago ... I was a mere
youth and knew not that I had the voice . . . until it came
suddenly to me."

Ponce looked from one to the other, understanding nothing
they were saying. "This voice . . ." he began, but The Old
Apache cut him off with a movement of his hand.

"Delgadito will tell you," he said. "Straps I need, and the
whip and blanket and saddle. Dallo Chie, go you with Juan
and bring them to me in the corral. Go you quickly . . . and
. . ." He paused, stood in thought for a moment, then went
on. "Say nothing to the white ones. They would not believe,
and there is no time for talk. Go you now!"

He bent, slipped through the gate and went rapidly toward
the bronco stall. Delgadito turned to Ponce, and the boy saw
tension and excitement grip his handsome, dark features.

"You know nothing of the voice?" he asked. When Ponce
shook his head, he began to speak quickly. "It is a rare gift.
More Navajos have it than Apaches; but a few of us have been
known to possess it. I did not know that The Great Joto was
one of those chosen few until this moment. They call it 'The
Voice,' do the horse-tamers. It is a tongue wholly unlike any
other. The words make no sense to other men, but they have
a power over horses, a terrible power which none can resist.
Once it touches a horse, he is not ever again the same."

"But," Ponce broke in, "you cannot mean that mere un-

122 MOUNTAIN STALLION

known words succeed where all the arts of great horse-tamers
fail! I cannot . . ."

"Call you The Great Joto a fool?" the slender rider de-
manded harshly.

Ponce was stunned by the sudden-flaring anger in the usu-
ally calm man. "Never that! It is only . . ."

"The voice he has within him this night, I tell you! Have
you grown so far from us that you dare to look upon our ways
with the doubts of a white man? I had not thought so. I do
not like that in you, my brother! But however weak your
knowledge of our ways, you will see a thing this night which
may restore your faith in those things our forefathers knew
well!"

He broke off speaking as Dallo Chie and Juan came from
the shadows of the trees, carrying the gear which The Old
Apache had ordered. Juan said, "Come silently," and slipped
into the corral. A moment later, they were all standing half-
way between the gate and the bronco chute. Dallo Chie
lifted both hands, signaling them to remain motionless where
they were. They fixed their attention on what was going on
over there where Victorio stood helpless between the log walls.

In the bright moonlight, The Old Apache's hair was an
aura of silver, his naked upper body tinged with an unreal
bluish light. He was standing motionless in front of the giant
gray, and the unceasing murmur of his voice ran through
the moonlight like a shimmering thread. He spoke rapidly,
clearly and without any inflection in his tone. The language
was one Ponce had never before heard, seemingly comprised
mainly of a series of low moans, long hissing consonants, and
throaty murmurings.

Ponce could not have told how long he stood there with
that mystic voice weaving its spell around him in the night;
but when at last he saw Joto move in closer to the stall, he
shifted his weight. The slight action sent pains knifing up his
legs, and he realized with surprise that they had gone to

WHILE TIME STOOD STILL 123

sleep. Glancing up, he noted the position of the moon. It was
directly overhead, so that no shadows slanted across the hoof-
torn sand of the corral. His breath stopped in his throat sud-
denly, and he made an involuntary movement which Delgadito
halted with a quick gesture of his hand.

The Old Apache had walked forward and laid one hand
on Victorious rigid neck.

The stallion remained half-crouched in the stall from the
moment Joto stopped in front of him. While the voice worked
at him, he stared straight into The Old Apache's face, his
eyes set and blank. When the hand touched him, he sank still
lower, and an awful trembling wracked his iron-muscled
frame. Nor did it pass quickly. For long minutes he shook
violently, as if in great agony, and each breath he sucked in
through his distended nostrils was a shuddering, protesting
moan.

Still the voice filled the night. Still it curled around the
flattened ears, pierced the dense protective hair within them,
writhed inward until the murderous animal was crazed with
fear. It would not cease, would not slow, would not give him
time to gather his dazed senses for resistance. It was merciless,
yet kind, inexorable, yet gentle, and it was a thing Victorio
could not rend nor maim nor banish. Sweat broke out on his
neck and flanks, turned to lather and spread up along his sides,
to drip onto the sand all around him. And gradually the ter-
rible tremors lessened.

"Ohl Uh! Oh! Aeeeeieiiiiahohdh std soieee!"

The words that were not words, but sounds run together,
dropped to a lower key, and again Ponce was impelled to
move as The Old Apache worked his way along Victorious
foam-covered side. He felt Delgadito's warning hand on his
arm and forced himself to stay where he was. Gradually the
realization of what he was witnessing overcame his fear for
Joto. From the shadows of his long-forgotten youth, Joto had
plucked a memory and shaped it into a powerful weapon

124 MOUNTAIN STALLION

which he was using to accomplish what they had all failed to
accomplish so far.

With matchless patience, The Old Apache worked along
one side of the stallion, then up along the other until he was
once again beside the wicked-looking head. The head swung
about, and in the eyes of the stallion lay a great question.
They gazed at the gnarled figure whose hands and voice were
at once the most terrible and the most kind things he had
ever known. They followed that figure as it moved to the
snubbing post and untied the rope. And when Joto went to
the rear of the stall and commenced to remove the logs there,
Victorio turned his head so that he would not lose sight of
him. The ears which he had always kept flattened in the
presence of the hated man-creature were pricked sharply
forward, flicking and twisting constantly to catch the smallest
sound coming from this strange creature of the night.

The Old Apache tugged lightly on the rope and Victorio,
sensing freedom, lunged backward out of the chute and whirled
to bolt. The voice cut across his dazed brain, pivoting him in
his tracks, and, with a loud snort, he commenced circling,
moving with long, effortless bounds. Once he veered in sharply;
but the voice struck him with an almost physical force, and
he shied away. Without being aware of it, he was being
worked into an ever-lessening circle as the rope was shortened
inch by inch.

He was going so close to The Old Apache now that he
could not balance himself for the gallop and so dropped to a
trot. The rope shortened still more, and he was walking
around less than five feet from Joto, whose voice never paused
nor wavered; but went on and on, like the unceasing night
winds of the mountains.

"Ho/ Aieeeiii ho!" The Old Apache said quietly and took
the last yard of rope into his hands. "Ho/ Uh kolah!" he said
and ran his free hand along the wet neck and shoulder of the
stallion and on down to the slender foreleg. For a long time

WHILE TIME STOOD STILL 125

he stroked that leg, then picked up the foot as a blacksmith
would have done. Without changing his tone, he spoke to
Juan, who had gradually moved nearer. "Come now, you.
Bring me the straps and the whip/'

Juan moved in, handed him two straps with buckles and
the long whip.

Joto took the things, still talking to Victorio, still holding
the foot. Then, too swiftly for the eye to follow, he slipped
one of the straps around the leg, just below the fetlock, and
drew it tight. He passed the end around Victorious forearm
and buckled it. Supporting the bound leg on his thigh, he
slipped the other strap over the stallion's back and buckled it
also. Next he fastened the strap that bound the leg to the
improvised surcingle.

Victorio was half-rearing now, staggering slightly. As a
realization of his helplessness struck him, he went up on his
hind legs and flailed the air with his free forefoot. The Old
Apache gave a final hard yank to the straps and leaped to
safety.

Victorio promptly went mad. Hobbled and off balance, he
lunged at Joto, and the old Indian danced farther back. He
flipped his hand that held the whip, and the cracker snapped
sharply; but the lash barely grazed the bulging shoulder.

Ponce turned away. "I cannot watch!" he whispered. "I
cannot . . ."

Delgadito said, "Stand you! The Great Joto knows what
he is doing. Would you refuse to witness this thing which you
will never see again?"

When Ponce turned back, Victorio was no longer stagger-
ing and lunging about. He was down on the sand and The
Old Apache was crouched over him, rubbing his head, strok-
ing the foam from his neck, and whispering into his ear.

And the mountain stallion was lying quietly under the
hands and the voice, as if listening to what Joto was saying.
Almost, it seemed to Ponce, he understood the strange words.

126 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Joto spoke to Dallo Chie. "Bring those things which he
must wear."

Dallo Chie took the saddle and blanket over and laid them
near the stallion. Joto dragged them closer and let Victorio
smell them for several minutes. Next he proceeded to rub
them back and forth over the prone animal, slowly, deliber-
ately, pausing often to address the lathered gray in a ques-
tioning tone. When even the detested oil-coated things failed
to rouse Victorio from his lethargy, Joto lay down full length
across the sweaty body and moved his arms and legs all over
him. And still Victorio did not resist.

"Ha!" Joto exclaimed, beckoning the others over. "Ha!"
he said again, sliding to the sand and straightening. He
walked all around Victorio, pausing every foot or so to prod
the animal with a mocassined toe. Seeing complete victory, he
moved up and sat on him and addressed him in Apache. "Big
horse, great horse, horse who was wicked and filled with the
killing lust, I have given you words that have destroyed the
evil thing in you and gentled you. You will remember them
always. From this night onward, you will be subject to man.
Know you that!"

Standing beside the motionless stallion, Ponce realized fully
for the first time the tremendous task which The Old Apache
had performed. Not yet could he wholly believe that Victorio
was gentled. It had all happened in so short a time. Then he
glanced up and noted that the moon was gone. He looked all
around and saw each pole of the corral clearly outlined by the
rays of the rising sun. The night was gone! The Old Apache
had worked with Victorio for some six hours without pause.
Glancing at his ancient friend, he saw the deep marks of
fatigue and strain lining the parchment-like face and re-
alized how much Joto had given of himself this night

He bent to touch the stallion's shoulder, but Joto said,
"Not yet is he like your Desert Storm, my son. Take care lest
your hand tell him you still doubt him."

WHILE TIME STOOD STILL 127

Suddenly, with the words, Ponce had doubts no longer. He
went to one knee and laid both hands firmly on the wet hide in
which the black dapples showed like large circles of ink
drawn upon absorbent paper. There was no hesitation in his
hands. He said in a shamed voice, "I did have doubts, my
father. I could not believe . . ."

"Ha! I doubted myself!" Joto said and chuckled drily. 'Tor
one moment, before I started, I looked into his eyes and saw
the great pride and hatred burning in their depths, and I
doubted. But it is done."

"I have no words . . ." Ponce began.

The ancient warrior made a brushing motion with one
hand. "Words! Words! They are made of air and turn into
air, once released from the mouth. You did not know it, but
your heart knew this thing would happen, my son, else you
would have torn yourself from Delgadito's hands and run
to save me from your big gray demon. Your heart knew."

"Will you saddle him now?"

"No. For the first time he has suffered enough. Almost
the devil in him killed him before it would die. See how the
water still streams from him? The fires have not yet wholly
died out To excite him now would be to kill him, my son.
Tomorrow, perhaps, when he has had time to think of all
that has happened, he will carry the saddle with you in it." He
looked away, then gave Ponce a sidelong glance. Only another
Indian could have caught the shadow of a twinkle in the black
eyes. "You are surprised? But why should you? You wanted
this old pile of bones so badly you were willing to risk all
our necks to get him. Now will you sit in the shade and cover
your eyes and have me fall apart trying to break him?"

"Break him?" Ponce exclaimed. "But he is now . . ."

"Quiet? Even so, but think not he will stay this way for-
ever. I have but taken the killing urge from him, not the pride
that will make him fight to remain a free horse. He will battle
you mightily, my son, but in the end, perhaps, he will say,

128 MOUNTAIN STALLION

'enough!' Think not I have torn the wall down. I have but
loosened one small stone so that it cracked ever so little.
Your work is still before you. Know you that."

"Oh," Ponce said, and flushed as the others burst out
laughing.

And that was the way Barbara found them when, after
waking and finding them gone, she came to the corral gate
to summon them to breakfast. For one long moment she
stared, open mouthed, at The Old Apache calmly sitting on
Victorious neck, at Ponce just as calmly stroking the lathered
shoulder and at the three young men standing nearby laugh-
ing. Then her ear-splitting yell sounded in the bright morning
sunlight, summoning the others.

13

Ponce Jj/Lakes Up His Jtfiina

FOR two days silence reigned in the comer of the valley
where the corral stood. Victorio no longer shrieked his fury to
the cloudless heavens when Ponce's hands touched him. Nor
did he attempt to break the bonds holding him in the stall.
Though he crouched, quivering, each time the boy's hands ran
over him, there was a gradual lessening of his terror, or so it
seemed to the young Apache. It was Delgadito who corrected
that impression, and his words made Ponce's blood run cold.

They were standing in front of Victorio's outstretched head
as the stallion stood in the stall on the third morning. No
muscle moved along the high, deep shoulders. The wide-set
eyes were unclouded, practically docile. One could almost
believe the stallion had decided against doing further battle.

"He is so quiet, so gentle looking, is he not?" said the
muscular rider. "One looks at him and thinks, 'But surely his
hunger and thirst and the discipline have made a different
horse of him. No?"

"One could believe that," Ponce agreed.

"And then," Delgadito went on, "one looks very closely and
sees something far, far beneath the soft eyes. Do you know
what the mountain stallion thinks then, brother?"

"No, brother. Tell me."

129

130 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"He thinks murder. One sees it as a faint, faint shadow far
behind those eyes, and one says, 'Now this horse has decided
that waiting is better than fighting. I will be a fool if ever I for-
get that. I will be more than that. I will be a dead fool/ "

Ponce started, then turned and searched for the shadow
Delgadito had mentioned. At first he saw only the tiredness
that was pulling the stallion down, hour after hour, and the
defeat and resignation. Then, so faint as to be only the sug-
gestion of a shadow, he found it. And again he shivered, as if
a cold wind had passed over him. He said quietly, "Delgadito,
what is to be done? Will nothing show him that we would not
cause him pain willingly?"

Delgadito's voice took on a tense, hard note. "Let not your
heart be softened with pity for this devil, brother. Never forget
he knows all too well that he fooled you three suns ago. He is
waiting for another chance. He has given up hope of freedom.
Now he waits only to kill. I have known others like him, though
none so bad. Two of them I won with 'The Talking'; but this
one does not hear me. Watch."

He reached out and took hold of the rope, and Ponce saw the
stallion's eyes change ever so little, darkening and going
motionless at the touch. Then Delgadito began speaking in a
low, sing-song tone that was unlike anything Ponce had ever
heard. The Apache words were slurred and indistinct; only the
rhythm remained constant, rising and falling like deep water
passing over unseen stones. There was a kind of hypnotic cad-
ence to the voice. Vaguely Ponce knew that his own upper
body was swaying gently in time to the rising and falling tone.
The effect was powerful, mysterious, but it did not touch the
stallion. He remained perfectly still, slightly crouched, his eyes
never changing, never moving. When the voice ceased, there
was no indication from the flattened ears that they had ever
received it.
"You see that?" Delgadito asked, half angrily. "Always be-

PONCE MAKES UP HIS MIND 131

fore it has had its power; but not with this one. Do not forget
that!"

"What, then, can be done?" Ponce cried wildly. "Have you
no answer?"

"Wait!" said the handsome wrangler. "That is the answer."

At this point, Joto slipped through the bars of the gate and
approached. He stopped close to the stall and regarded the
motionless stallion for a long time. "Seven suns have come
and gone," he said slowly, "and each shows more flesh fallen
away and the bones sticking out farther. He did not touch the
oats nor the fresh grass nor the water you left for him."

Ponce shook his head, "Will it go on until he lies dead, my
father?"

Again Joto was silent for a long time. At last he shook his
head. "No, it will not. He is too proud to die, I think." He
took a squat earthen jar from under his blanket and held it out
to Ponce. "Here. Take you some of the medicine on your
fingers and rub it into the cuts. It will ease his pain."

Ponce's nostrils dilated as he removed the lid and caught a
whiff of the dark, jelly-like substance in the jar. He knew the
marvelous healing powers of the salve from past experience, for
it was the same medicine which had been rubbed into Desert
Storm's fractured foreleg a year ago. He found a toehold be-
tween the second and third log and lifted himself until he
could reach Victorious shoulders, where long gashes had cut
through the gray hide. Taking a little of the ointment on the
ends of his fingers, he began to massage it into the wounds.

At the first touch, Victorio crouched lower, a deep tremor
running through him. Other than that, he made no move
throughout the doctoring process; but neither did he change
his crouching stance. Only when Ponce finished and stepped
away did he resume his normal standing position. But as the
powerful mixture began to work and draw the soreness and the
fever from the cuts, there was the faintest sign of lessening
tension in the big body. Seeing that, the three Apaches ex-

132 MOUNTAIN STALLION

changed knowing glances, and Ponce felt hope once again
begin to throb inside his chest.

They day wore on. Never was the stallion left alone. Hour
after hour, one or more of the Apaches were with him. Some-
times they talked to him in low, unhurried voices. Sometimes
they sang one of their long, monotonous chants. And some-
times they walked around and around the stall. But they would
not leave him.

Through the hottest hours of mid-afternoon, The Old
Apache dozed in the sun against the rock wall, his white head
sunk on his chest. As the shadows began to lengthen, he
roused, got to his feet and returned to the stall where Ponce
and Dallo Chie were pacing back and forth within sight of
the stallion's eyes.

"Dallo Chie/' he ordered, "go you and tell Delgadito and
Juan to move everything into the corral. We live here now."

As the man strode away to carry out the order, Joto ex-
plained, "Victorio thinks we will go away some time and
leave him alone. He thinks he is boss, maybe. We will show
him how wrong he is. He will see us every time he opens his
eyes and he will smell us every time he draws a breath and
he will know then that he is never going to be alone again/'

"But," Ponce asked, "will he not refuse to eat so long as we
are near"

"He does that anyway. When his belly begins to jump and
curl with the pain of hunger burning in it, he will eat; not
until then. But I think that is happening already. I think
maybe tonight he will steal some of that grass over there
and some of that water and those oats. He will do that, I think,
when we are asleep."

The three young men came into the corral, loaded down
with blankets, cooking utensils and foodstuff. The camp was
set up against the wall, directly in front of the stall, and while
supper was cooked and eaten, Victorio was obliged to look
on. Time after time he turned his head, staring away from

PONCE MAKES UP HIS MIND 133

his captors, but gradually it dawned on him that they were
there to stay, and he ceased pretending to ignore them. After
that, he kept his unwinking gaze fastened on them.

As dusk piled up thickly along the high walls, Delgadito
and Ponce approached the stall. The man lifted the rear bar
from its place, and Ponce untied the rope from the snubbing
post. Like a racer breaking from the starting gate in reverse,
Victorio shot out of the stall and streaked to the far side
of the corral. Twenty feet from the gate, he rose in a soaring
leap. The impact of his heavy body crashing into the chained
barrier set the walls of the corral weaving and groaning in
protest, and for a moment the stallion was hidden in the
thick cloud of dust struck up by his fall. He reappeared al-
most' instantly, flashing along the high walls. He came on
around, then veered sharply away from the stall. He lost his
footing in the sand, turned end over end and skidded a dozen
feet. He leaped up and lunged away, still at a dead run.

A dozen times he circled the corral, his speed gradually
lessening. He dropped from a laboring gallop to a long trot,
then to a walk. Finally he stopped altogether, his long, dark
legs trembling with exhaustion. Plainly, he was a sick horse.
His refusal to eat or drink had dragged the flesh off him until
he was a mere skeleton of his former self. His breath rasped
in and out of his open mouth as he fought for air. Short days
ago, he would not have been even slightly winded after a
run such as he had just made. Now he was on the verge of
collapse. When he could breathe less painfully, he walked
unsteadily to the gate, there to stand looking into the night-
curtained distance from whence the scent of his mares drifted
to him on the cool wind.

In the darkness, The Old Apache's voice held a note of sad-
ness as he said, "Once we Apaches were like him. We drank
freedom on the wind and we ate strength in raw meat. We
knew no master. We feared no thing under the sun. All
people feared us. Then the White Man came. The land was

134 MOUNTAIN STALLION

taken from us. Then we drank hatred in the wind and choked
on defeat in the dust. And for a time there was starvation
stalking our camps and death in our hearts, and we longed
for the freedom that was forever gone. The wise ones said,
'Better to eat the food our hated captors throw to us than to
die. Better to live with pride than to die with shame/ And
so it was done."

He paused, then finished in a voice that was little more than
a whisper, "I know how Victorio feels. I know."

"Even so it was/' Delgadito muttered. And Juan and Dallo
Chie echoed the words in the darkness. "Even so it was."

Ponce swallowed with difficulty. After a time, he managed
to find his voice. "And what of now, my father? Would you
have things as they once were?"

The Old Apache uttered a short, dry laugh. "Dreams are
for the sleeper, my son. I have no worries and no hunger. I
can dream my dreams in the suns of my last days. It is enough."

No one said anything more for a long time. Finally Juan
rose to unroll his blankets. "That stud had better stay on his
own side of this place," he grumbled as he dug a place in the
sand for his shoulders and hips. "I don't want him stomping
around on top of me. I don't like this much."

Dallo Chie's laugh exploded. "Big, brave man you are!"
he exclaimed sarcastically. "Maybe you better sleep in the
bronco stall! Victorio won't get you there!"

The three men laughed at the idea of the stocky rider hiding
inside the stall. While Juan went on grumbling to himself,
they unrolled their blankets and prepared for sleep.

"He will not come near this place," Delgadito said, grunting
and stretching. "He would try to climb over the wall rather
than come within rifle shot of us. Only when the rope tightens
does he want to kill."

Ponce lay down on one of his thin blankets, drew the other
one over him and tried to sleep, but for a long time his
thoughts worried through him, holding him awake. Gradually,

PONCE MAKES UP HIS MIND 135

however, fatigue took its toll, and he drifted into dreamless
sleep. Once during the night he roused, awakened by faint
sounds that seemed to come from the far side of the corral.
He raised himself to his elbows, wincing as sharp pains shot
through his left shoulder. He lay there listening, but the
sounds did not come again, and at last he lay back.

Ponce awakened in the first flush of dawn to find Delgadito's
blankets empty. Looking around, he spied the tall man coming
toward him from the gate. He jumped up, as the other mo-
tioned to him, and ran through the chill gloom, wondering
what had happened to bring that wide smile to his friend's
handsome face. A moment later, he was standing in front of
the gate, looking down into two empty metal buckets. Last
night one had been full of water, while the other had held a
measure of oats. A pile of green grass had lain between them.
Now buckets and ground were bare.

Victorio had lost the fight with his stomach!

Ponce leaped into the air. "I will put more water and oats
and grass here!" he shouted, "Now Victorio will know it is
better to eat and drink than to fight himself and us! He will
not die!"

Delgadito's eyes glinted with amusement, but he reached
out and held Ponce still. "No," he said, 'Tie will not eat while
we can see him not for a long time. Anyway, it will be better
to let his hunger torment him a while longer, so he will ap-
preciate more the food and water you give him. You must
make him admit it is you who are keeping him alive."

Ponce nodded, seeing the logic in the other's words. With
Delgadito, he returned to the camp site, where Juan and Dallo
Chie were setting about preparing breakfast.

"So," The Old Apache called out to them, "the fast is over,
is it? So much has been won then."

*Tes, my father," Ponce answered with a wide smile, 'lie
will not die, after all."

136 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Juan looked up from the bacon he was turning over the
coals. "He never wanted to die/' he stated bluntly. "All the
time he went hungry just to worry us. He is no good, that stud
of yours!"

As usual, Dallo Chie could not resist the temptation to
poke fun at his grumbling kinsman. "You don't like him be-
cause he has the pride you lack!" He laughed. "If you were
in his place, you would eat first all the food you could grab,
then think about fighting and hating your enemies!"

On the point of hurling a loud denial at his friend, Juan
closed his mouth and bit his tongue to keep from laughing
with the others. He returned his attention to the bacon,
making low noises in his throat. No matter how hard he tried,
he could never make anyone believe he was as ill-tempered
as he pretended.

The sun was just lifting over the eastern wall of the valley
as Ponce and Delgadito walked through the dust toward
Victorio. They moved slowly, making no unnecessary motions
with their hands, and they stopped fifty feet from the stallion,
to give Juan and Dallo Chie time to come in from either side.
When all four were in place, they moved slowly forward,
closing up the half-circle. To escape, Victorio would have to
dash between two of them, and that he would not do. His
eyes were fixed on the long whip Delgadito carried. He stood
perfectly still as Ponce stepped ahead of the others and picked
up the trailing lead rope.

With Delgadito walking slightly out to one side, Ponce
turned and led the stallion to the stall. There he passed the
rope over the end logs, made a half turn around the snubbing
post and took up the slack as Victorio came up. For one
moment it seemed that the usual battle would not take place
this morning. While everyone stood waiting in tense silence,
the stallion walked to within three feet of the narrow struc-
ture. He appeared calm, almost willing to do what he knew

PONCE MAKES UP HIS MIND 137

was expected of him. But, with one forefoot off the ground,
he exploded into furious action.

He whirled and threw his weight against the rope, but,
instead of turning a sommersault and landing on his back
when the rope tightened, he let himself go limp. The force
of his lunge swung him around, and he snapped out straight
at the end of the rope, like the end person in the game of
crack-the-whip. The snubbing post creaked and bent. The
rope hummed like a taut bowstring. But both held.

Failing in his first shrewd maneuver, Victorio squatted on
his haunches and flung himself from side to side, his head
whipping crazily. He grunted with every lunge, and short,
choking breaths gushed from his wide nostrils and gaping
mouth. Dust rose thickly around him as his back-clawing hoofs
tore up the earth.

Suddenly, Delgadito did something he had never done be-
fore. He sent the whip curling up and out, but instead of
touching Victorio with the lash, he snapped his wrist back a
split second sooner than usual. The three rolled lengths of
rawhide popped together with the loudness of a pistol-shot,
short inches above Victorious flattened ears.

The stallion made no pretense of being deaf to that nerve-
shattering noise. He leaped into the air as if stung. His jump
put him into the stall, and before he could collect his scat-
tered senses and set about his usual struggle, he found his
head yanked forward and down by the rope.

"So," Joto stated triumphantly, "he now knows the sound of
the whip! He finds it is better to jump before the lash touches
him. Good!"

Ponce was talking to the terrified animal in Apache, as he
had done constantly throughout the preceding three days.
With his hand on the rope, less than three inches away from
the distended nostrils, he crouched and looked straight into
the flat black eyes, trying to reach behind the darkness there*

138 MOUNTAIN STALLION

After an hour, Joto came over and stood watching and listen-
ing.

"Let his head come up," he ordered quietly. "Let it come
up and take my whip and keep talking to him. When you feel
the time is right, put your hand on his neck. And " he paused,
an amused glint in his eyes, "remember your shoulder, mjr
son."

"As if I could forget itl" Ponce thought. Each time he
moved his upper body, hot pains flashed through the bruised
muscles and torn ligaments. Though it was bound tightly, the
wound still hurt. He would carry the imprint of Victorious
large yellow teeth all his life. No, he would not be likely to
forget it. He looped the quirt over his right wrist, continuing
to speak in a quiet, even tone.

Without knowing how it had happened, he suddenly dis-
covered that he was a changed person. One moment he was
a boy whose feelings were all too close to pity for the captive
giant in front of him. The next, he was a young man with but
one thought in his head: to conquer this seemingly insane
creature who would not acknowledge the fact that he, Ponce,
was on the earth, even! He was not angry, but he was more
determined than he had ever been in his life.

"Victorio," he said levelly, "you have not known me very
long, but it does not take you very long to learn a thing. Now
hear me. I am tired of asking you to look at me and to listen
to me. Now I am telling you! I am going to let you lift your
head, and then I am going to put my hand on your neck.
You can try to sink your teeth into me again, if you wish, but
if you do, you are going to have a sore nose. Know you that.
You think you are a big, bad horse. I think so, too. But before
long you are going to be a big, good horse. You had better
believe that"

He did not realize that he had raised his voice, until he
heard Delgadito say in a pleased tone to Joto, "Now we can
breathe again, my father. Our brother has come to his senses."

PONCE MAKES UP HIS MIND

139

He did not turn. All his attention was on the stallion and the
rope he was beginning to loosen. Slowly, steadily, he let it
slip, until the chiseled head regained its high set on the arching
neck. Then he moved closer, sliding his feet through the
sand in short steps. He could feel the heat rising from the
stallion's wet shoulder and neck as he lifted his injured left
arm and laid his palm flat against the dappled gray hide.

A tremor ran through the thick muscles of that neck. It
moved away, bending, and Ponce whirled like a panther and
brought the riding whip down across the darting, reaching
muzzle. He was talking all the while. He went right on talking
as Victorio's scream knifed through the morning air. And his
left hand continued to stroke the heavy neck, as if the enraged
mountain stallion were the most docile of pets. Three more
times the head darted around, aiming for the young man's
shoulder, and three more times it was flung high as the quirt
stung the tender muzzle. But the quiet, level tone of Ponce's
voice never flaltered, never varied.

140 MOUNTAIN STALLION

It was Delgadito who saw the stallion's eyes change. It
happened so quickly, was gone so quickly, that for some time
he could not be certain he had read the expression correctly.
He said nothing, but his head began to move up and down
as the suspicion grew to a certainty. His eyes had not played
a trick on him. Victorio was surprised and Victorio was
puzzled. He might hate this boy who insisted on stroking his
neck, but he had begun to respect him. Of that Delgadito was
sure.

Preparing to step away, Ponce ran his hand along the side
of the high crest muscle that mass of hard tissues that gives
to a stallion the curving reach. His hand was hidden under
the heavy mane that was like coarsely-spun silver, when, half-
way along the muscle, it stopped. He moved his finger tips,
feeling of the oddly-shaped scar. Then, wanting to see it,
he parted the mane and looked closer. His breath stopped in
his throat, and the ground heaved sickeningly under his feet.

It was no scar. It was a brand!

Quite distinctly, Ponce made out the letters "ST," burned
into the skin with a small iron. Ever afterwards he was to
recall that moment and wonder what it was that prompted
him to quickly smooth the thick mane back into place over
the tell-tale marks. He did it without actually thinking about
it As he stepped away, he slid his eyes quickly around, to see
if his actions had been noted by Delgadito. The man was
behind him, looking into Victorious eyes. No, he had not
noticed. Only then did Ponce let his breath escape in a long,
slow sigh of relief, but he did not relax. For a long time he
stood quite still, thinking about his discovery. Though he
tried to ignore it, the one certain explanation kept pushing
its way into his brain.

Victorio belonged to someone else!

14

Jtf irst victory

FROM the moment that Ponce took a firm grip on his
emotions and decided to deal firmly with Victorio, a change
was noted in the stallion's attitude. There was no story-book
surrender on Victorious part, no joyous neighs ringing through
the air and no begging for affection. A wild stallion never begs
for anything. He will die rather than submit to the insulting
touch of a human hand. From the moment he first feels a
rope tighten around his neck and shut off his wind, his mind
is clouded with fear and hatred for anything connected with
human beings. The cloud does not suddenly float away. It
hangs, dark and heavy, in the animal's brain, and when it
begins to lift, the movement is so slow it is not felt nor
seen by the animal. All that is known to him, finally, is that he
does not fear the creatures who walk upright. He is neither
surprised nor happy. He is simply unafraid.

The first part of Victorious training ended when his eyes
revealed the fact that he had learned to respect Ponce. He did
not like the young man yet. He still wanted to kill him. But
he admitted that his fears were perhaps not too well founded,
after all, since Ponce did not strike him unless his own actions
called for severe measures. His intelligence was far above that
of the ordinary horse, though still far inferior to that of a

141

142 MOUNTAIN STALLION

man. Having been forced to depend upon his own senses for
his very life, he relied more upon his senses than upon his
reasoning powers. The unfamiliar was the dangerous, there-
fore the feared. He never questioned the warnings supplied
him by his nose, his ears and his eyes. Throughout his wild
life, he had respected no other creature, because he had never
known any that equalled himself in strength and swiftness.

Then Ponce came into his life.

The whip came also.

All was strange.

And all was feared.

It was one of those clear, cold nights, with just enough
moonlight to shed a bluish gleam over the earth and make
dark shadows darker. In the blackness of the clifFs shadow,
Victorio stood with head held high and nostrils dilated as he
sifted the night breeze for messages. From time to time he
turned, squarely facing the direction from which the wind
blew. There was nothing but the scent of pines and green
grass and the faint chill of snow from the distant mountains
that was more a feeling than an odor. Then the wind veered,
and his massive frame froze. For a long moment he stood there
quivering as he drank the man smell in through his nostrils.

Gradually the mounds of muscles smoothed out under
the darkly dappled coat that was a pale blue under the moon.
The head lost its strained, reaching cast. There was nothing
strange about those five distinct odors any more. He knew
each one. It seemed now that he had always known them. He
was not sure he liked them so close by, because he could not
doze for more than a few minutes at a time. Still, they were
harmless enough at present. He tossed his head in a high,
circling movement and snorted softly. He lifted one dark leg
and stamped three times in rapid succession. Finally, he set
his long tail into violent circling action.
That was when Victorio stopped being afraid.

FIRST VICTORY 143

There would be many times when he would take fright at
some new, disturbing thing; times when he would attempt to
kill those who held him captive. But he would never again
know that sickening, freezing heaviness in the pit of his
stomach at the sight or scent of man.

He left the shadows, moving out across the sand with that
long, elastic step of his. There was a black shadow moving with
him. When he saw it, he went into the air and came down
facing it. He snorted again, blowing dust high in front of his
face. If a stallion can be said to dance, Victorio danced then.
He stood up and walked on his hind legs, his head cocked far
over as he watched his partner. He wheeled and pivoted and
all but stood on his head. He ceased only when he accidentally
backed into the big snubbing post.

He whirled, ready to strike out with teeth and hoofs, but
when he saw it was only a post, he came out of his crouch and
advanced on it. The man smell was thick here. He in-
vestigated every square inch of the pine stake, vainly trying
to find something to be angry about At last he blew upon
it with his breath. It neither jumped at him nor fled from him.
Even when he went up and rubbed his shoulder against it,
it stayed quite firmly planted in the sand. The rubbing felt so
good, he groomed his whole side, then turned and groomed
the. other one. At the layers of dried mud and sweat peeled
off, he grunted and sighed with the sheer pleasure of it.

His hair combed, he was ready for a bath. Doubling his legs
under him, he flopped over onto his side and squirmed
wildly from side to side. He had forgotten all about tie man
smell. Suddenly the wind veered, and Victorio was on his feet
in a flash, crouching and peering into the dark shadows against
the far wall of the corral.

Now, of all four-legged creatures, tie stallion is undoubtedly
the most curious. He is worse than any child in his desire to
investigate any new object and scent. He will stand for hours

744 MOUNTAIN STALLION

watching the smoke of a distant campfire, and eventually he
will give in to his curiosity and go to investigate.

Victorio would have taken the prize in any contest held to
determine which stallion in all the world was the most in-
quisitive. On soundless hoofs, he moved through the moon-
light, pausing for long minutes at a time in his advance.
Twice he whirled and flashed away to the safety of the shadow
below the cliff, but always he came back and edged closer to
the five sleeping Apaches. He was going to find out more about
that Hands-and- Voice creature who persisted in running those
hands over him.

For an hour he stood fifty feet from the sleeping camp, try-
ing to make up his mind whether to flee or to attack. To his
surprise, he was unable to fasten onto a reason for doing either,
so he continued to stand there. He tossed his head, and the
moonlight spun his thick mane into rippling silver. Well, if
he didn't go over there, he would never know just how danger-
ous those creatures were. Yes, he especially wanted to examine
the Hands-and-Voice.

He made no sound at all as he crossed the last few yards
and halted at Ponce's feet. His shadow fell across the motion-
less form on the ground. He stood lightly-poised, ready to
flee ... or strike. He himself did not know what he would
have done, if Ponce had moved then. All he did know was
that there was nothing at all frightening about this slow-
breathing creature below him.

His great head reached out on the thick, curved neck, and
his delicate muzzle commenced to examine the worn blanket
like sensitive fingers. There was the odor of wood smoke and
pine and grass in the soft material. These were good odors,
the kind one liked to have with one all the time. The long
upper lip lifted, the big teeth closed on a fold of the blanket,
and slowly Victorio drew it off the sleeping young man.

Afraid to breathe, lest he be caught at his secret game, he
backed away, then turned and danced across the moonlit

FIRST VICTORY 145

sand. His roving eye glimpsed his shadow again, but now it
was strangely distorted by the flapping blanket in his teeth. He
reared and whirled, sincerely frightened. Then the shadow
disappeared behind him, and he pranced on toward the cliff.
Safely hidden in the shadows, he set about the task of un-
weaving the blanket. This was accomplished by the simple
business of placing his forefeet squarely on it, gripping the
folds firmly in his teeth and jerking his head up. The ripping
cloth made a very pleasing noise in the night. He kept at his
task until dawn began to tint the eastern sky. By then, the
blanket was reduced to a few frayed strips of dust-covered wool.

Ponce awoke shivering. For the past hour he had slept un-
easily, tossing and pulling at the blanket that seemed to have
no weight and no warmth at all. The nights were always
chilly up here in this high, thin atmosphere; but this was by
far the coldest one he had endured. He sat up, looked around
and started to roll out of his blankets. Then he stared down
in surprise. There was no blanket over him! His eyes narrowed
and he looked suspiciously at the four men who still slept
nearby. One of them had stolen his blanket during the night!
But which one? In the act of going to his hands and knees to
investigate, he froze, his gaze falling on the deep hoof marks
within a yard of his hands.

"Delgaditol"

The sleeping men jerked upright as though invisible wires
had pulled them. Delgadito was on his feet, turning wildly to
face whatever danger was coming, before his eyes were fully
opened. When the danger did not strike nor even come within
sight, he turned and glared down at Ponce.

"What you want to scare me out of ten years growth?*' he
snapped. "I will tie you flat on top of an ant hill."

Ponce fought to keep his face straight, but it was no easy
task, considering the startling effect his call had produced. He
pointed to the hoof marks in the sand. "Look," he said.

Delgadito started to mumble something about what should

146 MOUNTAIN STALLION

be done to people with a crazy sense of humor as he squinted
his sleepy eyes. "Well/ 7 he growled, "what is so interesting
about horse tracks? I have seen . . ." He sucked his voice
back into his throat and leaped over Ponce's head to kneel in
the sand beside the tracks.

A low humming sound rolled up from his broad chest as
he read the story. He straightened slowly, going to his full
height and looking across the corral, which was beginning to
lighten under the climbing sun. Over there against the wall,
the night shadows still lay thick, but he could make out the
high shape of Victorio. The stallion was standing looking
toward him, and as they exchanged long glances, the horse
lifted his head higher, drew a long, slow breath and released
it in a loud snort It was the first time he had done that

Delgadito whirled, jumped back over the top of Ponce and
knelt beside Joto, who was sitting on his blankets, nodding
steadily. The younger man's words streamed swiftly from his
lips, and The Old Apache went on nodding energetically. A
moment later, Delgadito snapped a command at Juan and
Dallo Chie, who had done nothing except sit and turn their
heads from Ponce to Delgadito to Joto, and back again. When
Delgadito yelled at them, they leaped up and commenced
throwing all the camping gear onto their blankets. A moment
later, they rolled the blankets tightly, swung them across their
shoulders and trotted out of the corral.

Delgadito followed them more slowly, and The Old Apache
turned to Ponce. "It is not certain, yet," he said in a voice
which trembled slightly with hard-held excitement, "but it
may be that this day is the day, my son. No, the wall has not
fallen, but it may be shaking a little bit. We are leaving you
alone with Victorio. Keep the whip in your hand at all times
and do not take your eyes from him. Go to him, talk to him,
study him. If it is the time, you will know it. Lead him into
the stall. Do not hurry him. First, bring the bucket with a

FIRST VICTORY 147

little oats in it to the stall. When he is here, maybe he will
eat If he does . . ."

He broke off, looking toward the still, shadowy form in the
growing light. He studied the shape for a long moment, then
grunted and followed Delgadito out of the corral.

Left alone at the stall, Ponce had a bad time of it at first
He could not seem to control his legs. They insisted on shaking
like reeds in a high wind, and he could distinctly hear his
teeth chattering. He was not that cold, he knew. He drew a
deep breath, gripped his hands together in front of his chest
and pulled with all his strength. The strain steadied him, and
he sighed with relief. Now for the leap!

At the gate, he took the measure of oats Juan handed
through the bars. Dumping them into the bucket, he carried
them to the stall and set them down against the wall. He then
picked up the long whip and started pacing toward Victorio,
who had followed his every move with wide, curious eyes.

The stallion had watched the four men depart, and it
bothered him rather than relieved him. This procedure was
not the usual one. He did not think he liked it much. As the
youth advanced slowly, he tightened his muscles, getting
ready to take to his heels if anything else occurred to displease
him. But the Hands-and-Voice creature sounded and acted
and smelled the same as ever. For a moment, it looked as if
he were going to come right on and try to do something evil,
but now he had stopped. That was too bad, for without those
others around, it would be an easy thing to kill this one.
Victorious chest swelled with pleasure at the exciting thought,
and he stamped several times. That action had no effect on
the Hands-and-Voice creature, so he snorted loudly, making
the challenge unmistakably clear. Still nothing happened.
Didn't the creature want to fight? Well, what did he want
to do? Play? No, the eyes were quite steady, quite calm. The
form did not move. And the voice kept going on and on,
exactly as it had always done.

148 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Victorio gave up trying to figure it out. The only thing to do
was to wait and see what would happen. It was impossible
to fight something that clearly had no intention of fighting.
He threw his head up in that wide, swinging circle. If this
upright creature didn't understand that, they might just as
well call off the whole thing here and now!

But Ponce did understand that movement of the big head.
As plainly as spoken words it said, "Well, don't just stand
there! Do something!"

With his eyes fastened on the stallion's, Ponce bent and
picked up the lead rope. "Come you, Victorio/' he com-
manded, tugging gently. "We will go to the stall, and you will
enter it without acting crazy. I have the whip today, so you
had better not start thinking about pounding me into the
ground! Try that, you big goat, and I will skin you alive and
make you into a pair of pants! Come you. I am going to take
hold of your halter, and we are going to walk side by side
for a change. Come you big goat!"

For a moment Victorio pretended he did not know what
the tugging on his halter meant. He stood perfectly still,
letting his head see-saw up and down with the pull, then he
lifted a forefoot and set it down a mere six inches ahead of
the other. The voice continued to flow around his small
pointed ears, and he began to twitch those ears in an effort
to sift every shade and tone for some hidden meaning. He
could find nothing at all to be alarmed about, which was
slightly disappointing, so he lifted the other forefoot and set
it down six inches ahead of the first. This half-advance went
on until he was stretched out so far he began to wobble slightly.
He was obliged to move a hind foot to keep from falling. That
was very risky. He snorted at his own courage.

His ears were twitching faster and faster. There must be
some hint in that voice as to what was going to happen. It did
not change by so much as a half-tone. Well, this was amazing
indeed! There was some trick to it, that much was certain. It

FIRST VICTORY 149

had never happened bef ore, therefore it was not to be trusted.

The small ears suddenly flattened, shutting out the voice.
The dark legs moved more quickly, took longer steps, and a
moment later Ponce was forced to tilt his head far back in
order to keep his gaze on the wide eyes above him. His every
nerve was strung to tightly he knew he could not move, even
if his life depended on it, which it well might Fixing his
whole mind on the simple act, he reached up and grasped the
chin strap of the hackamore. The head seemed to be set in
concrete. The wide nostrils were pinched in and wrinkled,
and the ears were almost hidden in the glistening mane.
Plainly Victorio was placing no trust whotsoever in this new
procedure. One wrong move on his part, the young man knew,
could turn the giant gray into a raging killer. He knew also
that he would be unable to escape, if that happened. Those
sharp forefeet could strike with the deadly accuracy of a rattler.

"Victorio," he ordered, "put those ears up where they be-
long! And quit curling up your nose as though you smelled a
skunk! Maybe I don't smell like a horse, but I don't smell
that bad either. Now, when I say, Walk!' we start toward
the stall. You hear? Remember you: I have this whip, and if
you get crazy, I will brain you, you old goat! Now . . . wdk\"

For one endless moment it seemed that Victorio was not
going to obey the voice and the pressure on his hackamore.
Then, he released a loud snort, shook his head so violently
he almost tore the hackamore from Ponce's grip and stepped
forward. A half dozen steps onward, his ears flipped erect,
then slanted sharply forward. He tossed his head again, lifting
Ponce off the ground. So this, his actions stated clearly, was
all there was to it! His body lost its stiff action, his tail lifted,
and he began to walk with high, springy steps.

Halfway to the stall, a particularly vigorous toss of the
stallion's head swung Ponce a foot off the ground. Startled,
he spoke loudly, and the tone knifed through Victorio's lightly-
balanced mind and was interpreted as a warning of danger.

150 MOUNTAIN STALLION

He reared, shook Ponce off and wheeled away. Eyes starting
in terror, he took three lunging strides before the rope tight-
ened. He skidded to an abrupt halt and faced about. He had
learned the futility of fighting that rope.

"Victorio!" Ponce called sternly. "Come you back here!
I did not even touch you. It was your own head-throwing that
scared you. I am not made of bricks, and I cannot keep my
feet on the ground, if you pull me into the air, can I? Come
you, silly goat!"

The stallion was still trembling from his scare. It required
another half hour to again bring him within reach. Once more,
the pair started for the stall, and once more the stallion's own
playfulness and strength resulted in his taking fright and bolt-
ing. To the patient Ponce, time stood still. Nothing mattered
except getting the gray into the stall without employing force.
When Victorio reared and lunged away for the third time,
the young Apache lifted the whip and caught him on the
rump with the tip. It was not a cutting blow. It barely stung
the thick hide, but its effect was instantaneous and wholly
satisfactory. In mid-stride Victorio grunted, stiffened his legs
and plowed to a stop. The look he turned on Ponce clearly said,
"Now, how did that happen?"

He came to the young man more quickly this time, all too
anxious to avoid a second mysterious pinching on his rear end.
It was beginning to look as if one could do nothing without
this creature's knowing about it beforehand! At the stall,
another hour was spent with the stallion blowing and snorting
over every square inch of the structure. He acted as if he had
never seen tie thing before. But eventually his curiosity tri-
umphed over his uneasiness, and he allowed himself to be
led into it. Immediately, he changed his mind and shot back
out, and the whole sniffing, blowing and snorting process had
to be repeated.

When the stallion was again inside, Ponce took a half
dozen quick turns around the snubbing post with the rope.

FIRST VICTORY 151

He had become unbelievably tired, all at once. Something
warned him that he had better bring the thing to a close very
quickly. He had not been aware of anything except the stallion
from the moment he had first spoken to him. Now he glanced
up and saw that the sun was over three hours high! He tried
to remember where it had been when he had started toward
Victorio, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to think
clearly. When he stepped away from the post, he stumbled.
Vaguely he realized that his nerves had been strained to fever
pitch too long. It was the same feeling that came over him
after a race, only worse. All his muscles were turning to jelly,
and he had trouble focusing his eyes.

He staggered to the corner of the stall and reached up to
stroke the damp neck where the hairs formed a cowlick at the
base of the heavy jaws. The motion was never completed.
Without warning, his legs buckled under him. He grabbed for
the logs, but he could not pull himself up. He saw Victorious
eyes on him and saw the question in them, but when he tried
to speak, his lips refused to move. With a low moan, he
reeled against the logs, slipped lower and fell over onto his
back as soft blackness rolled over him.

15

NoQ

uarter!

J

IT WAS a month before David Forrest returned to the
mountain valley, instead of a week. Upon his return to Shady
Mesa, he was called east by a horse breeder who had two
yearlings he thought the Arizona horseman might fancy.
No sooner had David Forrest contracted for their delivery,
than a call came from California. He promptly flew to the
west coast, where he engaged in further horse trading. Since
he never considered making a purchase without the advice of
Gil Dreen and Joe Marino, the three of them were absent from
Arizona nearly three weeks. Then they were obliged to await
the arrival of their purchases, and another seven days slipped
by.

Though still in Arizona, Gabe Stuart was as effectively pre-
vented from leaving his ranch as he would have been had he
been bound hand and foot. He took care of his cattle without
the aid of a rider, and as luck would have it, the fences chose
that particular time to go down in countless places, and the
ditches clogged up and overflowed their banks. All of which
made a very busy man of the rancher.

It was exactly one month to the day from the time they had
jumped into truck and pick-up and set off on the wild horse

152

NO QUARTER! 153

hunt that the same five again started the trip into the moun-
tains.

Ponce had looked for his friends each day, but when the
days stretched into weeks with no sign of them, he realized
that their own interests were preventing their immediate
return. Knowing they would come when they could, he kept
his thoughts on the business of converting Victorio into a be-
liever in the goodness of mankind.

It was not an easy task. At times it appeared well nigh
impossible. He had been fooled into thinking the gray's
acceptance of him that one morning indicated a sudden about-
face of the stallion's attitude, especially when the animal
had just stood quietly by until he recovered from his mo-
mentary blackout from sheer exhaustion. He could not have
been more wrong had he believed that the moon was made
of green cheese. To all appearances, Victorio had simply used
that morning for the purpose of storing up more strength for
continued resistance.

For ten days it was necessary for the three grown men and
Ponce to use every trick known to wild horse runners in order
to fight Victorio into the stall and keep him there. During
those struggles, the valley again rang with the vicious animal's
insane screams and bellows, and the heavy sand of the corral
was pounded to powdery whiteness by the plunging hoofs and
racing feet The thing began to take on the aspects of an end-
less nightmare.

None of his companions seemed to share Ponce's un-
easiness. In fact, Joto was plainly pleased. "He is himself
again," he informed the bewildered boy. "That time he
wanted to be friends with you, he was not himself. One day
he will be like that all the time, maybe, but now he must work
his wildness and his meanness out in his own way. In time
he will decide there is no point in fighting, and he will want
to be friends with you again. It is his way. You cannot change
it"

154 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Three weeks from the day Victorio had been captured Juan
lugged his heavy stock saddle into the corral and dumped
it onto the ground, squarely under the surprised animal's nose.

Mid-morning came and with it a gradual lessening of the
stallion's uneasiness at this new turn of events. He lowered
his head and sucked the oiled-leather scent deep into his
lungs. After an hour of minute inspection, he flipped his ears
forward, signifying his acceptance of the new article.

Immediately, Delgadito spoke to Juan and Dallo Chie,
who came over and began to remove one log from either side
of the stall. The logs were fixed to the corner posts with raw-
hide thongs and could be removed individually. The two which
the men removed were on a level with the stallion's chest,
and for some time Ponce was kept in ignorance as to the
purpose of their being taken away. He stood talking to Vic-
torio while his companions went about the business they knew
so well.

When Dallo Chie was in place on the opposite side of the
stall, Juan lifted the big saddle. Dallo Chie caught it, and the
two of them held it a foot above Victorious back. Slowly they
lowered it until the fleece padding brushed the gray shoulders,
and there they held it while the stallion proceeded to show
them how little he took to the idea of wearing one of those
contraptions.

A quarter hour passed before the crazed struggles lessened.
The saddle was lowered again, more firmly this time, at which
a second hysterical outburst on the part of the stallion held
up the proceedings another quarter hour. When the gear
came down for the third time, it was not lifted. It was held
in place on the heaving, twisting back until that back settled
to a level line.

Victorio stood crouched under the strange article, his
whole body quivering and streaming with sweat. Clearly he
expected pain with every racing second. When it did not
come, his trembling gradually lessened, then stopped alto-

NO QUARTER! 155

gether. The rigid mounds of muscles smoothed out, and again
the mountain stallion released that long, unsteady breath that
sounded like a sigh.

"We will not tighten the cinch/' said Delgadito. "It is
enough for now that he bears the saddle quietly. We leave it
on him and go away. Ponce, stay you here and try to talk some
sense into his head."

Juan started away, then he turned and shouted, "You don't
let that stud get my saddle down in that stall and pound it to
pieces, you hear me?"

Ponce moved one hand in an affirmative gesture and smiled
as Dallo Chie slapped his friend on the back and took out at
a dead run for the gate. The Old Apache and Delgadito fol-
lowed more slowly. The corral was empty except for Victorio
and his constant companion.

At noon, Delgadito brought the youth a piece of roasted
venison. "How goes it, brother?" he asked, running his glance
over the quiet stallion. "He does not try to get Juan's saddle
under his hoofs?"

Ponce shook his head, unable to speak because his mouth
was full of venison.

"Good!" Delgadito grinned. "Juan is worried about it.
He says if Victorio wrecks it, he is going to skin him and
have a new one made from his hide."

Ponce nodded this time, his eyes showing his amusement
at the idea. The tall man turned and strolled away. He paused
and called over his shoulder, "I think maybe I will go for a
ride to the lake. Will you shoot me if I ride your Desert
Storm?"

Still chewing, Ponce shook his head, and the other ex-
claimed, "Good! I have never sat on what you call a Thorough-
bred. Maybe I will make a trade with you, if I think she is
better than my cayuse."

Ponce managed to mumble the Apache equivalent of

156 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"Don't say!" and shook his fist at his friend, who laughed
and vaulted over the high gate. Ten minutes later, the chains
of that gate rattled, and Ponce glanced up to see Delgadito
appear astride Desert Storm. He choked and gulped the meat
down, his eyes almost popping from his head. What did that
man think he was doing, bringing a filly into the corral with
Victorio!

He laid both hands on the rope and began to mumble
swiftly. "Now Victorio! Now Victorio! Don't explode! Desert
Storm is coming to visit you plague on that Delgadito She
is a very fine filly may Delgadito have bad dreams And
she will tell you how pleasant it is to be ridden by a man
I would strangle that Delgadito, if I could So don't explode!"

Desert Storm was nervous from the moment she stepped
through the gateway. She moved with short, half-rearing
bounds, her legs bunched under her. A dozen yards into the
corral, she turned and flirted sideways, then bounced up and
down on stiffened forelegs. Sweat began to glisten on her neck
and shoulders, and she kept trying to rear.

Ponce turned from watching her to see Victorio crouching
low in the stall, as if preparing to leap over it. He was quiver-
ing in every muscle. His thick neck swelled with the tightened
muscles, and the heavy juglar vein pulsed faster and faster as
the filly's scent was carried to him on the breeze. It had been
a long time since he had last been close to one of his own
kind. His mares had all but slipped from their place in his
thoughts. But here was a new mare! She was tall and black and
graceful like the deer which sometimes came into the valley
to feed with the band. She was coming closer . . . closer. . . .
Her breath ran along his flank, and the touch of it was like
the warming winds of spring after the icy blasts of winter.
Then it was on his shoulder. It was caressing his own face.
He turned his head and fixed his amazed gaze on the soft,
dark eyes. His explosive grunt was like a joyful shout, and

NO QUARTER! 157

Delgadito laughed as he held the black filly close to the stall.

Victorio had fallen hopelessly in love!

His eyes were not flat and blank now. They were glowing
with a light Ponce had never seen in them, and an instant
later, the stallion reached out and nipped the filly's neck
gently. He did not move as she half reared, squealed, and
struck out angrily with her right forefoot. But he did not nip
her lovingly again. Quite clearly she had given him to under-
stand she was as taken with this meeting as he was.

Feeling herself to be mistress of the situation, Desert Storm
consented to having the side of her neck nuzzled, and when
her suitor assured her he would not dream of offending her
a second time, she turned her head toward him. For long
minutes they stood with muzzles touching, talking in that
silent language which is more eloquent than spoken words.
When Delgadito reined Desert Storm away, she moved re-
luctantly, turning her head back to keep her new-found ac-
quaintance in sight.

"Now the work will be made easier, maybe," Delgadito
said with great satisfaction, holding the filly to a stand a
dozen yards away. "Each time your old stud is in the stall,
or safely held with the rope, we will let Desert Storm talk
to him some more. Maybe she can convince him that life is
not all ugliness."

As the filly moved toward the gate, Victorio kept his gaze
on her. When she was out of sight, he gave voice to a shrill
neigh of loneliness that climbed into the still air and quivered
out across the valley. An answering call sounded from beyond
the pines, and that, naturally demanded a second neigh on
Victorious part. The horse-shouts went back and forth at
regular intervals until the filly was far up the valley.

Victorio snorted and shook his head impatiently when
Ponce touched him, then he turned and began nuzzling the
logs against which Desert Storm's body had rubbed. For
a half hour he continued to inhale the sweet scent left there.

158 MOUNTAIN STALLION

When Ponce commenced stroking the damp neck, there was
no resistance on the part of the gray.

The young Apache lifted the heavy saddle to the ground,
loosened the rope and stood back to let Victorio leave the
stall in the customary way like a bolt of lightning. But
the stallion did not whirl and bolt to the far side of the corral
this time. He was giving all his attention to Ponce, who had
on him the scent of the filly. When the rope tugged beneath
his chin, he obeyed without hesitation. And when one of the
hands rose to scratch him behind the ears, he cocked his head
to one side and lowered it The closer his muzzle came to the
creature, the thicker became the scent of the filly. And so it
was that the graceful Desert Storm accomplished in short
minutes what four grown men and a youth had failed to ac-
complish in weeks.

Ponce kept his voice steady with an effort. "Victorio," he
informed the stallion, "you are not quite as wild as you
thought you were, maybe. Now you and I are going to walk
around this corral. When I say Walk!' we walk. When I say,
Trot!' we trot. Remember that. Come you, now. Walk!"

They started off at a fairly reasonable pace, but before long
the stallion began to reach his legs out in what was for him
a casual walk. For Ponce it was a matter of trotting or being
dragged off his feet. So he trotted while Victorio walked. By
the time they had circled the corral three times, he was
gasping for breath. The stallion, showing no such signs of
fatigue, began to toss his head up and down, which action
resulted in Ponce's being pulled into the air every twenty
feet or so. His right arm began to feel like a wet rag, so, with
a loud gasp, he called, "Whoa!" and stumbled to a halt.

It required fully ten minutes for him to regain his breath.
"Victorio," he stated, "y ur legs are too long for this or
mine are too short. I am going to turn loose your halter and
hold onto the rope. We will now trot . . . slowly!"

He set off again, but instead of jogging as he had intended

NO QUARTER! 159

doing, he found himself going at a dead run. At the agency
school he had been considered extremely fleet of fool; but he
soon realized that a man's legs were never meant to keep
stride with a horse's. Foot by foot, he fell behind the stallion,
and when he gripped the rope tighter, he was pulled along in
great, soaring strides.

"Hey, you Victorio!" he choked. "Stop! Whoa!"

He started to lean back and stiffen his legs and promptly
found himself hauled along on his stomach in Victorious dust.
He twisted and turned and fell headlong a dozen times before
he finally succeeded in regaining his feet "Whoa!" he com-
manded sternly. Victorio trotted on, deaf to the command
which he in all probability never heard. He was enjoying him-
self more and more. Only when the nose band of the hacka-
more banged sharply against his nose did he pull up short. He
slid to a stop and looked around at his dust-mantled, gasping
companion, as if to ask what came next.

"You you are too much horse for for me!" Ponce
panted, clutching his side to ease the pain burning there. "We
we will go and rest by the stall. Come you." He walked across
the hot sand, his legs threatening to collapse at every step.
Reaching the stall, he flung himself full length on the ground
and gulped the thin, clear air hungrily.

Victorio stood over him, his ears flicking back and forth
as he sifted the breeze for strange sounds. He could find
nothing to be alarmed about, so after awhile he let his head
droop, closed his eyes and dozed. Twice he wakened and
stood staring at the still figure on the ground in front of him.
Twice the thought flashed through his brain that he could in
all probability rear and drive the sleeping figure into the sand
without suffering any pain from that black, snake-like rope.
But the scent of the filly was still heavy in the air. There
seemed to be no danger in this sleeping creature. And so he
let the thought depart, sighed gently and dozed on.

160 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Bright and early the next morning, Delgadito came to the
stall and announced matter-of-factly, "We will saddle him.
You will then ride him."

Ponce opened his mouth, then closed it without saying any-
thing. His legs were beginning to feel like wet rags again, so
he held onto the snubbing post until they ceased shaking. By
the time The Old Apache, Juan and Dallo Chie were present,
he had gained control of himself sufficiently to be able to let
loose of the post and take his place at Victorious head.

There was a visible tremor throughout the big frame in the
stall as the heavy stock saddle was lowered by Juan and Dallo
Chie. But no such violent explosion as the one of the previous
day followed the first part of the saddling routine. As the cinch
was passed under the deep chest, a dark hind leg struck out
twice. Still, the stallion offered no real resistance.

"Now," said Delgadito, "get up there, brother. Put one foot
on each wall and lower yourself very slowly into the saddle.
When you are ready, nod to me, and I will untie him and
throw you the rope."

With his stomach turning somersaults, Ponce obeyed
silently. He grabbed the top log, drew himself up and straddled
the stall, one foot firmly planted on each top log. Beneath
him, the stallion stood as still as stone, his ears erect, his eyes
rolled far back in their sockets. Inch by inch, the young man
lowered himself until his knees touched the hard, shining
leather. There he crouched, waiting for the eruption that
was sure to come. Victorio did not move did not even move
his ears by so much as a half inch. But as Ponce grasped the
horn and started to remove his feet from the logs, the stallion
began to sink away under him. He crouched as low as he
could, and, with the sinking of his body, his ears flattened,
his nostrils widened, and his tail was tucked tightly against the
dappled rump. But he did not struggle, even when Ponce
eased into the saddle and bore all his weight on it.

Minute after minute, the waiting silence held. Very slowly,

NO QUARTER! 161

Ponce reached a hand down and stroked the rigid shoulder in
front of his knee. There was no flicker of movement under
his palm. He flashed a look toward Delgadito, then nodded
ever so slightly. The man took a length of rope, knotted both
ends to the chin strap of the hackamore and gently passed
the rope over Victorious head to Ponce.

Slowly, almost carelessly. Delgadito loosened the long tie
rope from the snubbing post His eyes were fixed on Victorio's
left shoulder, and when he saw the muscles knot and tighten,
he flipped the lead rope off the post and flung it to Ponce.

The young Apache made a wild grab, caught the coils and
lifted both legs high, to avoid having them crushed as Vic-
torio shot out of the stall. That first backward motion halted
abruptly. There was one split second of complete motionless-
ness. Then, before he was completely set, Ponce felt the
saddle drop from under him and tip crazily as Victorio went
to one side in a crouching, twisting leap. His slim body
snapped like a whip as the stallion stuck his head between his
legs and kicked at the sky, then whirled and tried to climb into
that same sky. When the lithe, swaying form did not shoot
out of the saddle, the stallion threw himself into a series of
those murderous leaps and twists and whirls that give pro-
fessional horse-breakers nightmares.

Again and again, the massive gray shot into the air and came
down on stiffened legs with a force that jarred the ground,
and washed all color from Ponce's strained face. Failing in
that, the stallion started that most dangerous of all tricks, the
whirling buck. With his hind feet moving no more than a
yard in any direction, he spun in a tight circle to the left, then
reversed directions while his rider was off balance. He came
out of that with a rolling, whipping twist that lifted the saddle
three inches off his back and threw his rider down across the
horn with sickening force.

Stars blazed before Ponce's eyes, his breath was knocked out
of him, and he began to bleed through the nose. He lost a

162 MOUNTAIN STALLION

stirrup, kicked frantically to retrieve it and caught it barely
in time to avoid being flung a dozen feet into the air by the
stallion's sunfishing jump that pointed the four stiffened legs
toward the sky, then wrenched the lathered body straight as
the ground rose. The dark legs buckled, and, in a choking,
spurting cloud of dust, horse and rider crashed down.

Automatically, Ponce rolled out of the saddle as the gray
fell, but he grabbed the horn and let the stallion's rising lunge
fling him once more astride. There had long since ceased to
be any such thing as time, and as the battle raged back and
forth across the corral, the young Apache began to lose con-
sciousness. The maddened shrieks and squeals of the animal
under him faded steadily, until he was riding a whirlwind that
spun him faster and faster into a soundless void. He tried to
call to Delgadito to rope the stallion, but, as he opened his
mouth, his head was snapped back and his teeth sank deeply
into his tongue. He could no longer see the ground nor the
walls of the valley not even the sky. All that was visible
through the billowing dust were the lathered shoulders and
the whipping, silvery mane of his mount. The front of the
saddle tipped until the horn struck him in the stomach,
dropped away and rolled to one side. There was one last con-
vulsive twist, one last soaring leap, and then the stallion surged
forward in a dead run, straight for the gate!

In terror, Ponce leaned far to one side and attempted to
pull the crazed animal away, but no human hands could
turn Victorio. Ponce gripped the steel-like coils of the lead
rope and slashed at the extended head with superhuman
strength. Less than fifty feet separated them from the gate
when the stallion veered to the left and streaked along the
bottom of the fence.

The rampaging animal held to the run four times around
the corral. He sank to his fetlocks in the sand at every stride,
and before long the dragging weight of that sand forced him
to slow down. On the fifth circle, he broke and began to labor,

NO QUARTER! 163

but the heavy coils in the rider's hand struck him across the
shoulder, and he again flung himself into a run. He slowed to
a trot less than a hundred yards onward, and after that he did
not respond to the urging rope. Twenty feet from the stall, he
planted his feet wide and halted, with his head almost touching
the sand. He was weaving on his feet, and his darkly dappled
coat was white with lather.

Reeling in the saddle, Ponce clutched the horn with both
hands and fought to keep from tumbling to the ground.
The corral was spinning and dipping before his eyes. He
could hear nothing at all, and his insides felt as if they had
turned to jelly. Slowly, he pulled his feet from the stirrups
and leaned down, but suddenly his fingers slipped off the
horn and he plunged toward the sand. He felt strong hands
catch him and break his fall. From a great distance, he heard
a voice which sounded vaguely like Delgadito's, but when he
tried to stand, he found he had no legs at all, and he slumped
helplessly in his friend's arms. Even the strongest of con-
stitutions and will to conquer could not help but yield
temporarily to the series of superhuman tests that this boy had
been enduring.

With agonizing slowness, the world stopped spinning. Ponce
managed to stiffen his legs so that they would support him.
He said faintly, "Let me go, Delgadito," and reached up to
grasp Victorious hackamore.

"Come you," he whispered. "Walk!"

Staggering with every slow step, horse and rider reached the
stall, and when Ponce croaked a command, the stallion walked
in between the walls. The young Apache started to unbuckle
the cinch strap, but he pitched forward, cracking his head
against one of the logs, nor could he struggle to his feet to
complete the task he had started. "Delgadito," he croaked,
trying to focus his blood-shot eyes on the tall rider who had
never left his side, "maybe you had better do it." He waited
until the man nodded and moved to comply, then let himself

164 MOUNTAIN STALLION

slide down the wall until he was sitting on the sand. He man-
aged a wan smile as Delgadito laid the saddle aside and
squatted down beside him. "I rode him, did I not?" he asked.

"You rode him, brother/' Delgadito said quietly. "Maybe
one day you show me how it is done, no?"

"This makes twice I have ridden him," Ponce whispered.
"If the third time is to be worse than this one, I think maybe
one of us will give up."

Delgadito did not reply to that immediately. He nodded to
himself several times. "Maybe," he murmured finally, "maybe
that stud has decided it won't be you who gives up."

16

JLJie JLledrt of a Thoroughbred

NEVER again did Victorio buck.

It was as if that one murderous battle had torn the last
shreds of hatred from his mind. He became quiet though by
no means gentle. He ceased struggling against the ropes at the
entrance to the stall, and his burly form no longer shrank and
quivered at the touch of the saddle. No day passed that he
did not strike at Ponce or one of the men, but at the touch of
the quirt the lash had been taken out of the corral and
permanently stored among The Old Apache's belongings he
straightened, as though anxious to do what was expected of
him.

This willingness of his posed something of a problem, both
for horse and handlers. Invariably he did a thing too quickly
and with far too much energy. If it was a matter of reining
to the right, he whirled like a cutting horse, instead of like the
big animal he was. If he was going at a slow canter and the
hackamore indicated he was to stop, he jammed all four feet
into the ground and instantly froze into a statue. This sudden
halting resulted in Ponce's being flung flat over the saddle
horn. After numerous repetitions of it/ the youth's stomach
began to turn a dark blue tone.

Instead of moving from a stand into a slow walk at the

165

166 MOUNTAIN STALLION

touch of the spurs, the stallion leaped into a dead run with
the uncoiling motion of a released spring. Instead of cantering
in a wide, slow circle, he leaned so sharply inward that Ponce's
stirrup all too often brushed the sand. He could not travel at
a collected canter. If the reins slackened so much as a quarter
inch, he was immediately sprinting full out, and to sit that
streaking gray in a high run was to know the feeling of being
flung, helpless, into the funnel of a whirlwind.

Accustomed to the feel of Desert Storm's comparatively
slender build, Ponce had difficulty getting the feel of Victorio.
The back was a good deal broader and it was heavily corded
with those long, rolling muscles which can lift a stallion onto
his hind legs and hold him erect for an amazingly long time.
When tensed, those same muscles can roll a tightly cinched
saddle from side to side as if the gear were not held down at
all. Experiencing that lifting, rolling motion repeatedly, Ponce
realized that his control over the stallion depended wholly
upon his own unceasing alertness and upon the gray's willing-
ness to obey the firm hands and equally firm voice.

One more fact was brought home to Ponce. A stallion is
incapable of relaxing. The ears move as if attached to the head
on swivel hinges, forever flicking back and forth, individually or
in unison, forever sifting the air for new sounds. The nostrils
keep time with the ears, flaring, twitching, and wrinking, test-
ing the breezes for telltale scents. The eyes are never still in
their sockets, and the head moves back and forth and up and
down. Even in sleep, the ears do not droop, but stand stiffly
at attention, ready to warn the sleeper of approaching danger.

These things Ponce learned through experience and through
the words of The Old Apache, who instructed him by the hour
on the habits and peculiarities of that noblest of all four-
legged creatures the stallion. Each time he ended his lecture
with: "You must never forget this, and you must never trust
Victorio. Not until you know he is speaking the truth when
he says to you, 1 will not harm you.' "

THE HEART OF A THOROUGHBRED 167

Only once did Ponce voice the question that was upper-
most in his mind. "Why did he stop bucking after the one
time?"

The Old Apache grunted. "You will know in time, my son.
I know, but the proof is only in my head, and so I will not tell
you/' He gave his young companion a half-smile, then sobered.
"This you remember: When our white friends return, there
will be great danger, maybe. Have always the spurs on your
boots and the quirt in your hand. You will have to use them
with all your strength or Victorio will kill that beautiful Iron
Duke, if they bring him with them. Know you that." He saw
a shadow come into the wide, dark eyes of his young com-
panion and pointed a bony forefinger sternly. "You think you
will hurt Victorio? Ha! The spurs and the whip will be like the
sting of bees on his tough hide, nothing more. You cannot hurt
him. You can but sting him so fast and in so many places, he
will want to run instead of fight."

"Those spurs are sharp," Ponce said hesitantly.

"And Victorious hide is tough and thick!" Joto snapped. "A
man who cannot bring himself to master a stallion has no right
to possess one! Does your heart grow soft within you again?"

Ponce moved his head from side to side. "No, my father," he
replied quietly. "I will use the spurs and the quirt, if it has to be."

"Look you," the ancient warrior said in a kinder tone.
"Even if those spurs of Delgadito's which you use were Mex-
ican 'Cutting Hooks/ they would not hurt Victorio very much.
In the first place, your legs have not the strength to drive them
in too deeply, and in the second place, that hide of his has a
thick layer of leathery muscles under it You dig in with the
spurs, and they bounce out, do they not?" When the youth
nodded, he said quietly, "All right then, do not hesitate to use
those spurs when it is necessary. If they hurt him, you would
know it quickly enough. Know you that."

For two days Victorio had been taken out of the corral and
exercised along the valley wall, in the company of Desert

168 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Storm. Delgadito rode the black filly and kept a firm grip on
the stallion's lead rope, in case the stallion decided to throw his
rider and take out for the upper end of the valley, where his
mares grazed.

The precaution was entirely unnecessary. Victorio was far
too interested in the tall filly to think of escaping. Tail erect,
chin tucked in until it touched his broad chest, he danced
along in a manner to excite envy in the most beautifully trained
show horse. It was almost laughable the way he paraded for
his aloof companion's benefit.

Twice during these afternoon outings, Delgadito lifted
Desert Storm into a reaching canter, holding her from a run
with some difficulty. As Victorio moved to match her strides,
Ponce could hardly restrain a shout of sheer joy at the almost
frightening power of the gray under him. In this swifter
motion, there was no hint of heaviness, and the long dark legs
had the effortless, floating action of a blooded racer. Acutely
aware of the as yet untried strength of Victorio, he wondered
what would happen if these two animals were matched against
each other in a race.

Such a race, he knew, would not be a fair test of the stallion's
speed, for though he moved without strain or awkwardness, he
had not yet born a saddle and rider long enough to have gained
the perfect balance which would come in time. Moreover, the
weight of the heavy saddle and Ponce was of definite im-
portance, since they were at present much heavier on the
animal who had never carried anything except himself than
they would be, once he found his legs.* It would be a handicap
with the rules reversed, one in which the untried labored under
added poundage while the proved winner ran with empty
pockets.**

* A way of saying a horse moves equally freely and easily under saddle and
rider as he does alone.

** The lead weights used in Handicaps are assigned to the horses according
to age, sex, working time and number of wins within a given period, on the
theory that such weights will render all animals in the race equal.

THE HEART OF A THOROUGHBRED 169

On the third day, Ponce took the stallion out alone, a thing
to which Victorio objected strongly. He carried himself
proudly as before; but he repeatedly attempted to rear and
return to the grove and Desert Storm. Ponce was obliged to
use the spurs throughout the first half hour, but gradually the
stallion quieted and threw himself into his work with his cus-
tomary energy.

In an effort to train the gray to work in a collected manner,
Ponce rode in a circle some hundred yards in diameter. They
went at a walk the first half dozen times, then Ponce said,
"Trot" and gave the reins a gentle shake. As Victorio lunged
into a run, Ponce threw his weight back, hauled hard on the
rope reins and clapped the spurs into the muscle-cushioned
ribs. The stallion knew exactly what those stinging thrusts
meant. They meant stop! He stiffened his legs and sat down
and Ponce was rocked forward against tie high front swell of
the stock saddle.

Victorio did not move until the spurs released him. Then
he snorted and stamped, impatient to repeat the process. The
circling continued by leaps and starts and skidding halts for an
hour. Ponce's face and bare back were streaming, and sweat
glistened on Victorious shoulders and flanks. The rider was
much the tireder of the two.

A sound coming down from the top of the wall drew
Ponce's attention upward. The next instant, he was waving
to Gabe Stuart, who was closely followed by Joe Marino on
The Iron Duke. The instant after that, the young Apache was
fighting to drag Victorio out of the dead run into which the
unexpected movement of his hand had flung the nervous
stallion. He was well over two hundred yards away from the
wall by the time he managed to turn tie excited animal and
pull him in, and by that time the five white hunters had
descended into the valley and started out to meet him. What
happened a moment later was forever afterwards a nightmare
in Ponce's memory.

170 MOUNTAIN STALLION

He saw Joe Marino ride out ahead of the others, and then
the world went crazy. The usually calm Iron Duke caught the
wild stallion's scent on the wind. The threat to his own life was
instantly sensed by him, though he had never had occasion to
defend himself against the rigidly controlled colts in the racing
world. Once a half-mad stable mate had attacked him, but the
fight had been halted before he had been given time to realize
what was happening. Now he instinctively hurled a challenge
at the distant stallion, and when an answering shriek pierced
the still air, he grabbed the bit in his jaws and streaked forward.

Ponce's first warning of tragedy came to him as the massive
gray rose, screaming, to flail the air with his forefeet, then
crashed down and bolted straight for the oncoming Iron Duke.
The youth clutched wildly at the horn to keep from being
thrown from the hurtling body. He caught his balance and
raked the bulging shoulders with the spurs the while he sawed
on the rope reins with all his strength. He might as well have
attempted to drag Gabe Stuart's adobe house off its foundation
with a string.

The running stallions approached each other like flashing
shadows. The distance between them narrowed from two hun-
dred yards to a hundred and fifty . . . one hundred . . . seventy-
five. With awful clearness, Ponce could see the killing light in
The Iron Duke's staring eyes. In the far distance he heard
voices shouting back and forth, and caught a fleeting glimpse
of Barbara Forrest trying to bring Last Laugh up on The Iron
Duke. He saw Joe Marino using his whip on the racer with
desperate violence and without any effect. He did not see
Desert Storm, with Delgadito astride her back, flash out of the
trees a half mile away and start toward him at a high run.

Numb with terror, he lifted the heavy coil of lead rope and
slashed Victorio alongside the head in an attempt to make
him veer aside. The stallion did not waver. His mind was
locked on a single idea murder! Deaf and blind and com-

THE HEART OF A THOROUGHBRED 171

pletely insensitive to pain, he streaked on, his wicked head
aimed straight for The Iron Duke's throat.

In the instant before the two big animals collided, Ponce
flung all his weight to the left and saw Joe Marino lean in the
opposite direction. As if guided by the same muscles, the two
riders hauled their mounts' heads around at a cramped angle,
and then the stallions came together with a force that drove
their wind out in twin gusts and knocked them reeling apart.

Off balance, Victorio stumbled and crashed onto his left
side. He ploughed a furrow in the grassy turf for twenty feet.
His skidding fall jarred his second shriek out of him, and, as
he threshed and lunged to his feet, Ponce miraculously suc-
ceeded in regaining his own feet and making a flying leap for
the saddle horn. He caught it, and Victorious whirling lunge
jerked him into the saddle. He was whipped far to one side as
the gray crouched and wheeled away to dodge the throw Gabe
Stuart made with his lasso. The loop fell short. With a deaf-
ening scream, Victorio rose, then came down and crouched
to hurl himself forward in a second slashing attack.

The Iron Duke had not fallen, but he had been jarred off
balance. For fifty yards he stumbled on, trying to wrench the
reins out of his rider's hands. Failing in that, he reared and
spun. Before he could gather himself, the heavy butt of the
jockey's whip caught him between the ears. The shock of the
blow jerked him back to sanity. For one single instant he
stood facing the murderous Victorio, stark terror knifing
through him. Then the whip cut him across the rump and
he wheeled and fled. Within a dozen yards, he was reaching
for his full, graceful racing stride.

The Iron Duke was through with fighting, but Victorio was
not. With one convulsive movement of his gigantic body, he
launched himself in pursuit of the frightened racer.

Ponce was sobbing with frustration and rage. He yelled
into the flattened ears, and repeatedly lashed at the out-thrust
head with the coiled rope. He screamed in blind terror as he

172 MOUNTAIN STALLION

caught a glimpse of Barbara coming in at an angle, to cut
between Victorio and The Iron Duke.

He tried to swing Victorio away, then abandoned the at-
tempt as he saw the chestnut filly falter in mid-stride, slow,
and plunge away in fright.

The ground was a green blur under Victorious thundering
hoofs. Ponce could not breathe. The wind pushed at him like
a smothering hand, and his eyes streamed as the whipping
silver mane stung them like countless darting flames. Through
a swirling mist, he caught a glimpse of The Iron Duke, fifty
yards in the lead. He knew that colt, and because he knew
him, he felt a wild hope leap to life as his eyes told him that
the racer had gone into his top stride. Like a bird skimming
low over the ground, the sleek Forrest Thoroughbred was run-
ning his best under the insistent whip of Joe Marino. If he
could hold that lead! If he could outrun Victorio this
time . . . !

He could not. Foot by foot, yard by yard, his lead was cut
down. Ponce stared in disbelief. No horse in the world could
catch The Iron Duke not with over fifty yards to make up!
And then he knew what had happened.

Terrified beyond belief, the Thoroughbred was not running
with his customary balance. His action was rough, his strides
far shorter than usual. In a state of shock, he could not pull
his attention from the danger closing in on his rear and fix
it on what he was doing running for his life. With sickening
swiftness, the beautiful colt was going down before the wild
gray's challenge. Less than a dozen yards stretched between
his streaming tail and Victorio's red-lined nostrils ... six
yards. He fought to regain his lead; but it was too late or was
it? From some hidden well of reserve, The Iron Duke drew
one last ounce of strength and managed somehow to keep
those flaring nostrils at his flank.

A shout was whipped along the wind, and Ponce turned
to see Delgadito coming in on his left. Huddled up along her

THE HEART OF A THOROUGHBRED 173

churning shoulders, the Apache was riding Desert Storm like
a jockey. There was no saddle nor bridle on the filly. She ran
in obedience to the hands of her rider. And she ran as she
had never run before. Even with fear clutching at him with
icy fingers, Ponce could not but marvel at his filly's breath-
taking speed. He had never before seen her in action with a
rider on her back. Now he watched her turn a hundred feet
away and start her move against Victorio.

For one instant he saw her falter as she came out of her
turn, but the next instant she was coming on with ever-
quickening strides. He glanced ahead, saw The Iron Duke
holding his place a half length ahead, then whirled back to
watch Desert Storm. A low cry that was never heard issued
from his throat as realization of what this meant swept over
him.

Desert Storm was being matched against Victorio!
Whether the big filly realized the deadly urgency for speed,
or whether she was running for the sheer joy of running,
only she knew. Whatever her reasons, she set herself to the
task of catching the two stallions with a cold and deadly de-
termination that hurled her over the ground with dazzling
swiftness.

In the opening sprint, before she had fully recovered from
that single faltering stride, she fell back a dozen yards. Then
she steadied and began to move up remorselessly. With her
long body stretched low, her delicate legs an invisible blur,
she appeared to Ponce fully extended; but as Delgadito lifted
a hand and slapped her on her right shoulder, he saw that he
had been mistaken. She responded with a second burst of
speed that made Ponce's eyes widen in astonishment. Inch
by inch, her strides lengthened, quickened, became one long,
motionless blur. She was three lengths behind Victorio. When
she hung there for a dozen strides, Delgadito's hand again
brushed her churning shoulder, and she again responded to
that touch.

174 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Ponce saw that final supreme effort she made to draw her-
self alongside Victorio, saw her almost succeed, and his heart
thundered wildly as he stared back at those fixed glaring eyes
and foam-flecked nostrils. She came on to within a dozen feet
of the gray stallion's tail, but there she clung, unable to close
in. As though an invisible wire held her, she raced on in third
place, with The Iron Duke and Victorio staving off her chal-
lenge but failing to defeat her.

"The rope!" Delgadito shouted. "Throw me the rope!"
Only then did Ponce realize why the lithe wrangler had
forced Desert Storm to pit her strength and speed against the
two stallions. That she had proved herself their equal he
realized, even with his brain reeling from the shock of the
terrifying experience. Heeding the call, he twisted around,
measured the distance and threw the coiled reata. He saw
Delgadito reach out and snatch the whipping end, then face
forward and set himself for the most dangerous part of all.
If the rope tightened too quickly, Victorio would be flung end
over end. At the speed they were traveling, there was no
question as to what would happen to Ponce.

Riding the streaking filly as only an Apache could have
ridden, Delgadito displayed the matchless skill which had
earned him an unquestioned position among his people as a
great horseman. He shortened his grip on the rope and slowly
exerted a pull. At first there was no noticeable effect on the
speed of the madly racing gray. Then the dark legs began to
shorten their stride, the reaching muzzle dropped from that
level line, and The Iron Duke raced on out of reach of the
slowing stallion. It required another fifty yards to haul Vic-
torio around into a long circle. The rope shortened steadily,
his wicked head was brought tight against Desert Storm's
right shoulder, and the two horses plunged to a stop. With
the rasping noise of the winded animals' breathing loud in the
sudden stillness, Ponce and Delgadito sat looking into each

THE HEART OF A THOROUGHBRED 175

other's eyes without speaking, their faces gray and drawn
with the knowledge of the tragedy so narrowly averted.

After a long time, Delgadito drew an unsteady breath,
moved Desert Storm away with the pressure of a hand, and
started toward the distant corral. A piercing shout from Ponce
jerked him around, and he saw the youth staring with stricken
eyes at Desert Storm's right leg.

"She is limping, Delgadito!" Ponce cried hoarsely.

Before the man could move, Ponce was off Victorio and
running toward his filly. She snorted in fright and leaped to
flee, but after one step, she halted, a long shudder running
through her as she stood on three legs. The fourth, the right
foreleg, was held off the ground. Only then did Delgadito re-
member that slight hesitation of hers in the instant before she
had begun her move against the two stallions.

Desert Storm had raced over a half mile with an injured
foreleg!

17

Out of the V alley

DESERT STORM'S brilliant career was finished!

Ponce knew it before Gil Dreen rose from his examination
and pronounced sentence. The big filly's last race had been too
much for that right foreleg. That she had overcome the near-
fatal accident a year ago had been nothing short of miraculous.
That the fractured leg had knit and stood up under the
punishment she had given it along her rocket-like rise to fame
and fortune had been the rest of that miracle. But it was
inevitable that it would collapse sooner or later.

The trainer's words fell like frozen raindrops into the
waiting silence. They did not shock Ponce . . . did not sur-
prise him. He had already heard them whispered in the deep
shadows of his heart. Now they were merely being echoed.

"It's a tendon. It might be strained ... or bowed. If it's
the latter, we all know what that means her racing days are
finished. If it's strained badly, time alone will tell the story.
At best, she'll be out of action for a year."

Ponce did not reply. He choked down the lump in his
throat and went on caressing the velvety muzzle pressed
against his chest. Words could not help Desert Storm. Words
could not restore her leg to its steely, spring-like soundness.
That came under the heading of miracles . . . and as David

176

OUT OF THE VALLEY 177

Forrest had said on another occasion, he'd already had one.
It was too much to expect a second. He went on stroking the
muzzle, his gaze mirroring the pain in the filly's luminous
eyes.

"Finishedl"

The word echoed and reechoed in the young Apache's
ears like the tolling of a death knell. With the unexpected
suddenness of the desert storm for which the filly had been
named, calamity had struck and knocked her from the pin-
nacle to which her matchless courage and speed had carried
her. Never to run again . . . never to bring the thousands of
spectators to their feet in hysterical uproar . . . never to drink
the wind in full flight . . .

It was too much. Ponce put his hands over Desert Storm's
eyes, laid his face against the wide forehead and felt hot tears
drop from his eyes onto the face of his beloved.

Gabe Stuart climbed down from his roan gelding and went
to the boy, who had become like his own flesh and blood in
the past four years. "Son," he said gently. There was no
answer, no sound at all, and he knew that Ponce was too
proud, even in his terrible grief, to reveal the tears that were,
to him, unmanly. He said again, "Son," and put an arm across
the bowed shoulders.

The silence ran on and on. At long last, Ponce drew an
unsteady breath, squared his shoulders and turned. Indian-
like, he had gained complete control of his emotions in the
space of that one long breath, but his voice was husky and
strained.

"What Mr. Dreen tells me to do, I will do."
"Good boy!" Gabe said heartily. "And you won't be doin'
it alone. We'll give her the kind of care no horse ever had
before." He paused, then said more strongly, "It'll be all
right, son! We've got to believe that!"

Delgadito had stood at Victorious head like a statue of
bronze all this while. Only two things betrayed his suffering:

178 MOUNTAIN STALLION

his jaws so tightly clamped the skin showed white over the
bunched muscles and his black eyes that stared straight before
him into space. There was no doubt in his mind but that he
alone was responsible for the ruination of Desert Storm. That
he had forced her to give her all in order to save two human
lives and the life of at least one other horse did not matter
now. She was a ruined animal, and he, Delgadito, was re-
sponsible for it

He went over to Ponce and said in Apache, "The shame of
this thing is mine, brother. I let her run, even after I felt
her hesitate/'

Ponce read the misery in the handsome face. He reached
out and grasped Delgadito's upper arms firmly. "Never think
that!" he said sternly. "There are three living now who would
have died had you not done so. There is no cause for shame,
Delgadito. No cause at all."

"Desert Storm will never run again," the man said tone-
lessly. "There is shame in that."

"What happened to her this day would have happened
to her on the morrow, or the next day, or the day before she
was to race. No one can say -when it would have happened.
Know you that!"

The Old Apache had come up on his pony. Now he spoke
for the first time. "Leave off this beating at the door that has
closed," he commanded. "It is Desert Storm who will say what
is to be in its own season. Now is the time to take from her
the pain."

The quiet authority in the voice broke the spell holding
the group motionless and silent around the big filly. Gil Dreen
moved to his horse, unstrapped the saddlebags from behind
the cantie and began rummaging in them.

"I brought an extra set of stocking rolls for The Duke, in
case he needed them," he said, taking four tight rolls of
muslin from one of the bags. "Well wrap that leg and get
her over in the shade and see what's to be done then."

OUT OF THE VALLEY 179

The Old Apache said, "Wait here/' and turned his pony
toward the trees. Minutes later, he returned with the familiar
earthen jar in the crook of one arm. He slid off his pony and
knelt beside the filly's lifted foreleg. As he removed the lid
from the jar, a pungent odor rose into the hot afternoon air.
In the act of dipping a hand into it, he turned his head and
spoke impatiently to the bystanders.

"Joe Marino is over by the corral. That Iron Duke horse is
about run off his legs. Go there, my friends. We will follow
later with the filly, my son and I."

In his own sure way, he was ordering them away without
actually commanding them. In complete silence, the others
mounted and rode toward the corral in the trees all except
Delgadito. He started to lead Victorio out, but with a loud
snort, the stallion sank back, pulling against the rope. Twice
the Apache pulled, and twice Victorio refused to budge from
Desert Storm's side. With a helpless shrug, the man glanced
at Ponce.

"He says he is not going, brother."
The Old Apache said more impatiently than before, "Then
stay you here with him, Delgadito! But be you silent!"

The wrangler nodded, moved as far away as the lead rope
would allow and squatted down in the grass to wait.

As on that unhappy occasion a year ago, The Old Apache
now dipped his hands into the evil-smelling ointment,
smeared a goodly quantity of it on the injured foreleg and
began to massage. While his hands kneaded the tendons and
muscles with long, caressing strokes, the deep voice lifted in
a wild chant that sounded more like fragments of unknown
words than any known tongue. Rising, falling, rising again,
it went on and on, to weave its mystic spell over the suffering
filly. Little by little the trembling ceased to jerk the sweat-
drenched hide, and little by little the pain-slowed breathing
steadied. And strangest of all, Desert Storm's head drooped,
her eyes closed, and she dozed.

180 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Ponce knew the chant, for he had memorized each foreign
syllable and phrase under the guidance of Joto a year ago.
Then he had performed the curing rites over the fracture,
massaging into it The Old, Old Medicine whose secret formula
was known only to a few of the most ancient members of
the Apache nation. Of all curatives, it was said r The Old,
Old Medicine was the most powerful. No one could assert that
this was not true, for no one had seen it fail when admin-
istered by the hands of ancients who knew its secret.

For over an hour the chant continued. Then The Old
Apache stood up, wiping his hands across his leather-clad
thighs. 'We will lead her slowly to the trees, my son/' he
said.

Ponce stepped forward, tugging at Desert Storm's mane.
She hesitated, shook her head, then went slowly forward at
a halting, limping walk, swinging her head up and down with
every step.

Ponce walked backwards, never taking his eyes off that
tightly bound foreleg. Each time it touched the ground it
was jerked up, like a hand touching a red-hot stove lid. Deeper
and deeper into him sank the knowledge that the magnificent
Thoroughbred would never recover the full use of it.

Joe Marino had taken The Iron Duke some distance away
from the corral when they entered the grove, and was walking
the colt back and forth to cool him out. Ponce halted Desert
Storm close to the heap of sleeping bags and blankets while
Delgadito led Victorio on into the corral.

Supper was prepared and eaten in silence that evening.
Later, when everyone lay motionless in blankets and sleep-
ing bags, there was silence, but there was no sleep. Four times
during the long, dark hours Ponce heard -The Old Apache
rise and steal into the trees where Desert Storm stood tied.
Four times he heard the weird chant tremble along the wind
and knew that the ancient warrior was praying to the all

OUT OF THE VALLEY 181

powerful God of his people to heal the leg of the great Desert
Storm.

Long before dawn, Joto came and touched Ponce on the
shoulder. "This day go you with your friends from this place.
Go now."

Ponce was out of his blankets and on his feet with one
movement of his body. "That is not possible, my father!" he
exclaimed in a hoarse whisper. "Desert Storm cannot travel
with but three good legs!"

In the chill gloom The Old Apache's face could not be
seen. He looked like some gnarled tree-trunk as he crouched
under his tattered blanket, and his voice sounded like the
far echo of a fading thunder storm.

"Desert Storm goes not from here, my son. With me she
will stay. With me she will return, when the time is right."
He paused and seemed to be waiting for the young man to
protest. When that did not happen, he came closer and laid
a bony hand on Ponce's shoulder.

"My son," he said in a lost voice, "help me now to have
the faith I have always tried to give you. I have walked down
the long trail of life without fear, because one does not fear
any thing he sees clearly. Now it is as though I had walked
too far as though I had gone beyond the end of the trail
to where the darkness begins. I cannot see clearly. I can but
feel my way through this new, unknown darkness, and I must
be alone. Somewhere ahead the answer lies waiting. Some-
where there is light. I know that, but I must first pass through
the darkness. Go you with Victorio. His feet are almost upon
the trail of brightness and glory. You must not hold him back,
my son."

Ponce felt the fingers burn into his skin, and wondered with
one part of his brain if the heat came from The Old, Old
Medicine the hand had been massaging into the filly's leg,
or from the fires that still burned in this oldest of Apaches.
He said quietly, "It shall be as you say, my father," and

182 MOUNTAIN STALLION

started to turn, but another thought pulled him back. "Only
tell me what I can believe while I wait."

Joto gripped the youth's shoulders with both hands. "What
is the name of your stallion?" he asked sternly.
"Victorio," Ponce replied. "The Victorious One/'
"Then believe you this," the ancient warrior commanded
in the same firm voice. "War is for the valiant and the brave
and the strong only for them. Shame and death belong to
the coward. The spoils of war and the glory of war go always
to the victorious one."

Ponce said softly, "I will believe that, my father," and went
to wake the others.

An hour later, the five whites and four Apaches rode out
of the trees toward the steep trail. On Victorious head was an
Indian bridle, fashioned of a rope that could be decidedly
uncomfortable if the stallion acted badly. Dallo Chie and
Juan sided him, and Delgadito kept his stocky bay two yards
in front of him. The wrangler constantly looked back, watch-
ing for telltale signs of danger.

On the level plain outside the valley, Delgadito drew up.
"On the way out of these mountains," he cautioned the others,
"the path is often steep and dangerous. Go you always care-
fully, and keep you always safely ahead of Victorio." The
next moment, he was leading the way toward the trail that
climbed down from this upland plain.

It was mid-afternoon when they left the gloom of the last
canyon and emerged into the dancing heat waves of the desert.
A short distance away, the big truck and pick-up stood waiting.
Delgadito again broke the silence that had lasted throughout
most of the trip.

"Dallo Chie, Juan and I will go with Ponce and Victorio.
We will be at the place called Shady Mesa at dawn tomorrow.
Have you ready for Victorio a strongly built stall."

He nodded to the white people, then turned and led out
at a distance-eating canter, along the base of the mountains.

18

Lne bkies (^rasn JD

own

VICTORIO circled his padded stall, paused before the
door and screamed a challenge at The Iron Duke across the
fifty-foot lot. Then he flung his head in that high, circling
movement, reared to paw the steel netting over the opening
and dropped to all fours, only to circle the stall again.

This had been going on for a week. It was not only The
Iron Duke who served to keep the big gray in constant move-
ment. All the sights and noises and odors of Shady Mesa had
a maddening effect on him. Accustomed throughout his life
to the clean winds and the endless vistas of his empty moun-
tains, he was like a newly caught lion suddenly flung into a
cage and placed on exhibition.

Only the Indian bridle had made it possible for the Apaches
to control him upon their arrival at Shady Mesa. Safely locked
in the stud box* prepared for him, he had thrown himself
about in a frenzy of rage and terror. Within the first four days
he lost over a hundred pounds. Now, seven days after his ar-
rival, he looked like an over-trained racer. His bones stuck out
like those of a starved animal, and still the oats in the corner

* A stud box is a box stall, heavily reinforced and barred. Often stallions are
housed in "stud barns," buildings set apart from the main stables.

183

184 MOUNTAIN STALLION

feed box remained untouched. But, if his flesh was falling away,
his anger was not.

Four times the Indian bridle had been put in place and he
had been led out, cross-held by Ponce and Delgadito, on the
theory he would calm down somewhat if released from the
confines of his stall. The outings proved to be a waste of time
and energy for all concerned, and after an hour, he had been
locked in again, to resume his tireless circling and screaming.

No animal is more easily disturbed than the Thoroughbred
racehorse. The slightest change in schedules can throw one
into a decline. The slightest fright can bring on a nervous
collapse. They will not work properly, if their nerves conse-
quently their digestive systems are upset. Victorio's effect on
tie Forrest racers was becoming serious. Daily, their nervous-
ness had increased, until it had been necessary to turn all
except The Iron Duke and Mad Love into distant pastures.

Now, with the stables empty of all save the three male
horses, Gil Dreen was unlocking The Iron Duke's door, in
preparation for another attempt to solve the problem facing
them. Joe Marino was just entering Mad Love's stall. Ponce
and his three Apache companions waited in silence before
Victorio's stall. The boy felt a wave of pity sweep over him as
he watched The Iron Duke come into the open behind Gil
Dreen. The colt was frightened and angry, but he stood
obediently as the trainer slipped the bridle on, then cinched
the training saddle into place. Only his constantly-turning
head and backed ears betrayed his rage as he was forced to
bear the insulting challenges of Victorio without replying.

Mad Love was by no means the intelligent animal his stable
mate was. He flashed out of his stall like a rocket, his blood-
bay coat gleaming in the sunlight as he hit the end of the lead
shank and whirled. Quite clearly he had no intention of bear-
ing the new arrival's insults with The Iron Duke's dignity. He
wanted to fight, and he wanted to fight now! It required the
combined efforts of David Forrest, Barbara and Joe Marino

THE SKIES CRASH DOWN 185

to subdue him and get him saddled. He was dripping with
sweat by the time he passed Victorio's stall on the way to the
training track.

Gil Dreen, watching the whole thing, called disgustedly,
"Put the blinkers on the crazy fool, Mr. Forrest. We'll work
him a little in front of Victorio. If he can't see the gray, may-
be he'll calm down."

Mad Love was taken out of sight around the end of the
stable while a hood with bulbous leather cups was fetched
and slipped onto his head. As he went through the gate, he
seemed to be calming down somewhat. The Iron Duke
followed.

With the help of his companions, Ponce fitted the scarlet
hood over Victorio's head. Delgadito again made the severe
Indian bridle, and then Dallo Chie and Juan lifted the saddle,
with its hundred pounds of lead weights, and cinched it into
place.

Riding the cross-held stallion toward the track, Ponce
forced himself to think calmly, to remember the detailed in-
structions Gil Dreen had given him. He dismissed the little
crowd of grooms, stable-hands and exercise boys from his mind
as he started through the gate. When Delgadito stepped up
and unsnapped the lead shanks, he was thinking only of the
business at hand. If this attempt failed ... He shook his
head, and glanced up the track.

The Iron Duke and Mad Love were walking toward him
under tight rein. They came on, passing within twenty feet of
Victorio. They were going past when, with no gathering of
his bulging muscles, Victorio screamed and lunged. Instantly,
Ponce jerked hard on the reins, and the burning pressure of the
bridle stopped the stallion in his tracks. But it did not end
the matter.

The Iron Duke snorted and went wide, fighting to run. Mad
Love squealed shrilly and whirled to meet the gray. He was
set back on his rump by Joe Marino; but he squealed and

186 MOUNTAIN STALLION

lunged again as the jockey's heavy whip popped against his
shoulder. Unable to grab the bit, he allowed himself to be
turned down the track with The Iron Duke.

Ponce eased his grip on the reins, and Victorio moved for-
ward. He took three steps and shot ahead; but again he stif-
fened his legs and plowed to a halt as the nerves in his head
jangled under the biting Indian rope. The half-mile track
seemed incredibly long to Ponce during the next hour as it
was circled in a series of soaring leaps and jarring bounds and
skidding stops. His arms and shoulders ached from the strain
of pulling Victorio down, and his head began to throb
steadily.

Following Gil Dreen's directions, he gradually let the stal-
lion come up behind the two racers. By the time they had
circled the track twice, the three horses were less than ten
feet apart. What was more important, they were moving with
some degree of calmness. They went around twice more at a
walk, then the trainer turned and grinned at Ponce.

"Those weights, the bridle and all his foolishness are be-
ginning to make him wonder if he's so big and bad after all,
eh?" he said. "If he gets any more lather on him, he'll look
like he's ready to be shaved."

Ponce never took his eyes off the small, flattened ears.
"He is tiring," he said. "His action is getting rougher all the
time."

Gil Dreen muttered something to his companion, and Joe
Marino turned to inspect the stallion. After a moment, he
pursed his lips and nodded.

"He'll play heck catchin' us," he stated. "Let's let 'em out,
Gil."

"All right," the trainer said to Ponce. "We'll move out a
little. You let Victorio hold his place right where he is on
our tails."

Like perfectly timed machines, The Iron Duke and Mad
Love went into an effortless canter, and Victorio lunged ahead

THE SKIES CRASH DOWN 187

with the slackening of the reins. All too clearly he intended
to run the two racers down; but each time his action shifted,
Ponce tightened the reins and he was forced to follow the rose
gray and the blood bay at a slow canter.

The starting post neared, dropped behind, and the first turn
loomed close. They went around the track once, twice, three
times. So gradually as to be almost unnoticeable, the beat
of the leaders' hoofs quickened, until they were drumming a
steady tattoo on the firm track.

Victorio held his place in the rear.

At the top of the home stretch for the fourth time, Gil
Dreen and Joe Marino twisted around to observe the re-
sults of the experiment. They stared intently, frowning and
exchanging glances. Gil Dreen muttered something under
his breath and let The Iron Duke out another notch. The
racers' action shifted, smoothing out and quickening as they
went into their gliding sprint.

Victorio held his place. His action did not change.

'That stud hasn't picked up his stride by so much as a
split second!" Joe Marino yelled unbelievingly. "He just
lengthens them!"

It was true. Victorious action did not change, did not
quicken. His flaring nostrils were within half a length of The
Iron Duke's tail, held there with no apparent effort on his
part. Instead of picking up his stride, as the majority of
racers do, he lengthened them. They continued steadily, ef-
fortlessly and surprisingly long. The big form was settled lower
and extended farther. And everyone who watched him rea-
lized that he was one of those rare striders* whose speed lies
in his ability to stride longer, instead of more quickly.

'When would he quicken his action?"

* A stricter is one of that rare species of racers described above. The im-
mortal Man O' War was such an animal. At full speed, his strides measured
twenty-one feet. The recently retired Native Dancer, another all-time-great,
has the same action.

188 MOUNTAIN STALLION

The question ran back and forth among the spectators
along the rail, and the obvious answer ran with it.
"When he starts to drive/'

"All right!" Gil Dreen shouted back into the stallion's face.
"Let's just see you hold that action of yours now!"

He faced front, bunched himself into a ball over The Iron
Duke's shoulders and gave the colt a free rein and the whip.
Joe Marino moved with him, and together they sent both
racers into a dazzling sprint down the backstretch. Their
hoofs rolled deep thunder from the raked and rolled sand as
they backed their ears and flattened themselves out and ran
their best. Kept in racing form constantly, they were good for
a mile at that speed. They went at that mile with the flawless,
floating action of truly great runners.
Victorio, still running lazily, stayed with them.
At the three-quarters pole, the riders astride the leaders
whipped around. Their eyes almost popped from their heads
when they saw Victorio's head swinging with the measured
rhythm of a pendulum, less than a half length behind.

"All right! All right!" Gil Dreen yelled hoarsely, "Bring
him up here between us, Ponce I"

As the two racers decreased their speed slightly, Ponce held
Victorio's head steady, guiding it between the churning hind-
quarters of the other two. It went up until the crimson hood
was on a line with the others. In perfect unison, then, the
blood bay, the rose gray and the big dappled gray flashed
around the far turn and streaked down the stretch.

At the finish line Gil Dreen yelled, "Take him on, Ponce!"
and began to pull The Iron Duke down. Mad Love slowed
likewise, as Victorio thundered on into the turn. Midway
down the backstretch Ponce began to exert a pull on the reins.
Victorio gradually slowed. In the far turn, he was cantering,
and at the top of the stretch he was walking down the middle
of the track, blowing like a steam engine. When the two
racers came up to meet him and swung in on either side, he

THE SKIES CRASH DOWN 189

flattened his ears, but he did not attempt to give battle. All
the fight had been run out of him.

"And that," Gil Dreen stated loudly, "is the cure for what
ails him!"

Every day for two weeks it was repeated. At the end of
that time, Gil Dreen put Barbara and Joe Marino up on Last
Laugh and a sleek bay named Wild Dreams and sent them
to the track. "Victorio has just about run The Duke and Mad
Love off their feet," he explained to Ponce with a wry grin.
"While they take a breather, we'll let your big boy get used
to having girls around."

The first outing in the company of fillies threatened to go
much as the first one had gone with the two colts. But after
a half dozen attempts to break free, Victorio settled and con-
ducted himself with something remotely resembling dignity.
In the closing sprint of the work* Wild Dreams proved un-
equal to the task of siding the giant gray and the flashy chest-
nut. She fell off at the top of the stretch and left her fleeter
stable mate to fight it out alone.

But the $40,000 sprinter shocked everyone by washing out
midway down the stretch. Running furiously, she finished a
bad second to the lazily-striding Victorio.
Ten minutes later, the skies crashed down about Ponce.
Walking Victorio on around the track, he looked across
the long oval to where the usual cluster of watchers were
grouped near the gate. He saw two strangers standing not
far from David Forrest When, a few minutes later, he
stopped a short distance from the gate, he recognized one of
the new arrivals as the famous sports writer, Ernest Eisner,
from Los Angeles. He nodded as Eisner stepped to the rail
and waved, then pulled his attention back to Victorio, who
was moving restlessly.
For no apparent reason, the gray had become nervous. He

* A work differs from exercise or a work-out in that the racer is not permitted
to loaf at any time. He is moved exactly as he will be asked to move in a race.

190

MOUNTAIN STALLION

had long since learned the wisdom of avoiding the painful
pressure of the Indian bridle. For the most part, he contented
himself with making dire threats about what he would do if
there were any hope of getting away with it. Now he was
dancing uneasily, backing, half-rearing and trying to swing up
the track. When Ponce jerked him to a standstill, he froze;
but his nostrils were distended, and his ears were flattened
against his head. Ponce did not need to see the eyes to know
that they were once again glazed and blank. Everything about
the tense, quivering animal bespoke stark fear and rage.

Puzzled, Ponce looked up. Something, or someone, was re-
sponsible for Victorio's strange behavior. The young Apache
had met the writer at Santa Anita a year ago, and he knew the
man had a way with horses. He could not be the cause. The
second man was a complete stranger. He stood close to Eisner
and, like the writer, was giving Victorio his undivided atten-
tion. Heavy, with highly colored features and little eyes set in
deep rolls of fat, he possessed the smallest hands Ponce had
ever seen on a man. The young Apache noticed that David

THE SKIES CRASH DOWN 191

Forrest was standing quite still, a little distance behind the
heavy stranger. He also noticed that his mentor's usually kindly
face was unusually pale and stern.

Strangely, no one was talking. The unnatural silence was
broken finally by the stranger, who moved along the rail and
through the gate. "Bring him over here, boy/' he commanded.

Ponce moved Victorio forward, then struck the gray's left
shoulder with the whip as the stallion tried to rear. His eyes
darkened. This was the first time Victorio had displayed such
bad manners in more than a week. He jerked on the reins, and
Victorio froze, but he would not budge when Ponce attempted
to put him up to the stranger. As the man moved forward, a
deep shudder ran through the lathered body. It was then
Ponce realized that Victorio knew this man . . . and feared
him! He would have taken the stallion away, but the man was
close to the quivering shoulder, and one of those small hands
was lifting toward the silvery mane. For one awful instant,
seeing the hand come up, Ponce was on the verge of letting
Victorio do as he wished with the hated and feared stranger.

The fingers parted the coarse hairs. The small eyes stared
intently at the marks at the top of the heavy neck. The
fleshy face flushed, then paled, and the man turned. He took
three steps toward the people at the rail, one arm lifting, one
finger pointing squarely at Victorio. His voice, shattering the
silence, was like a suffocating hand flung across Ponce's mouth.

"That -wild stallion is a four-year-old Thoroughbred colt!
And he belongs to me!"

19

A. Filly Named Hagar

IN THE shocked silence, Gabe Stuart's voice was like a
thunder clap.

"That's a Her

The people at the rail turned to see the old rancher sitting
his roan gelding fifty feet away. He had come up without
being noticed, but everyone noticed him now. He was glaring
at the heavy stranger like a desert wolf ready to spring. A lane
opened for him as he touched spurs to the gelding, went onto
the track and halted directly in front of the startled man.

"That stud's name is Victorio, and he was run down and
captured in the mountains, a hundred and fifty miles from
here. He was as wild as any animal I ever set eyes on/' He
paused, leaned down and flung his voice into the upturned
face. "An' he belongs to that boy that's settin' on him this
minuter

The stranger turned to look at Ponce, then jerked back to
face Gabe. "You know a little too much, friend!" he snapped.
"You'll know a little more when you look at that brand on
the left side of that gray's neck. You'll see an ST burned into

* An ancient Hebrew word meaning "flight" (pronounced Hay-gar) . The
story related later in the chapter is true in every respect, but one. The filly's
name has been changed.

192

A FILLY NAMED HAGAR 193

the hide. And you'll know still more when I tell you my name
is Stafford Thomas!"

At mention of the brand, Gabe Stuart jerked upright, all
the color draining from his face. He turned startled eyes on
Ponce. "That true, son?" he asked hoarsely.

"Yes," Ponce answered quietly. "The brand is there. I have
seen it. I should have spoken of it, but I did not because I
hoped it was some kind of birthmark, even though I knew it
was not."

"Oh, son/"

The words sounded as if they had been dragged out of
the old man against his will. "You femnv what a brand means!
You fenow a branded animal has got to be turned over to the
man that branded him! Why did you keep still about it?
Why?"

Ponce could not reply, could not do anything except move
his head from side to side. How did one explain that his si-
lence had been a wild hope he had clutched to his heart
throughout the days and nights following his discovery of
those two letters? How did one explain that his silence had
been the only means of holding onto a dream that must die?
How did one explain? He heard his voice and did not recog-
nize it as his own.

"It is over now. Take your horse, Mr. Thomas."

For the second time an unexpected voice cut through the
heavy silence.

"Not just yet, I think," said David Forrest.

Unmindful of the eyes turned on him, he stooped and went
under the rail and crossed to the man who had introduced
himself as Stafford Thomas. He held his shoulders stiffly set,
and his eyes glinted with a light Ponce had never seen in them
before. Nor had he ever heard the soft-spoken owner use that
cold, cutting tone before.

"I will put no more trust in your words than I ever did,
Mr. Thomas," he said icily. "This horse will remain in this

194 MOUNTAIN STALLION

young man's hands until definite proof is produced to support
your claim/ 7

"Proof?" Thomas shouted. "My brand is my proof! Every
animal in my stable is branded with that ST, and you know it!
A little over three years ago, this gray colt broke out of his
paddock and was never seen again. He belongs to me, and he's
going to my place outside Phoenix as fast as a truck can get
him there!"

David Forrest moved a step nearer. "You are on my land,
Mr. Thomas," he said, still in that icy tone. "You will leave
now, and you will not come back until you have in your
hands the registration papers that will prove this colt is yours."
The heavy man choked and coughed in helpless rage. He
said in a strangled voice, "You'll not talk so high and mighty
when Fve done with you, David Forrest! You'll find out what
a fool you've been when I come back with the sheriff and the
papers stating that this four-year-old was registered as Ishmael,
a gray colt with four black stockings, by Equalizer and out of
Hagar!"

David Forrest gasped as though Thomas had struck him
in the pit of the stomach. "Did you say Hagar?" he whispered.
"Yes," Thomas yelled, his eyes shining triumphantly. "I
said Hagar! You know the mare, I believe?"
"Get out!"

David Forrest's voice was the roar of a raging lion. An
icy chill shook Ponce as he stared into the owner's ashen face,
in which the eyes blazed like living flames. He could not rec-
ognize the dignified gentleman he had known for over a year.
This tall man was on the verge of destroying the heavy figure
before him. In breathless fascination, he watched the two
men face each other for a long, tense moment, and he
breathed again only when he saw David Forrest control him-
self with an effort.

"If you are on my land five minutes from now," said the
wealthy breeder, "I will kill you with my own hands."

A FILLY NAMED HA6AR 195

Thomas stared into the cold gray eyes one instant more,
then turned and walked rapidly through the gate. He was
just beyond the clustered bystanders when Gabe Stuart reined
the roan gelding around and jumped it out in front of him.

"I think you and me and a friend of mine will take a little
ride, Thomas/' Gabe drawled softly. Without taking his
eyes from the startled man, he said, "Delgadito, come over
here and escort Thomas to his car. Wait for me there."

The lithe Apache moved up without a word and fell in be-
hind Thomas as the man started walking swiftly toward the
buildings, fifty yards distant

Gabe swung down and tossed the gelding's reins to Dallo
Chie. "Put him up someplace until I get back/' he said and
strode off in the wake of Thomas and Delgadito.

No one spoke until a streamer of dust could be seen
streaking out across the desert beyond the buildings. Then
Ponce moved Victorio over to David Forrest. Out of the
corner of his eye, he saw Barbara and Joe Marino come closer.
Then, the groom and exercise boys and stable hands closed
in to form a loose ring about the silent owner.

"He will return, Mr. Forrest/' Ponce said quietly. "It is
over now, but I would know about Victorio's mother the
mare called Hagar."

David Forrest shook his head quickly, but he stopped the
movement and motioned toward Joe Marino. "He knew her
better than I did," he said.

"No," the rider said huskily, "you tell her story, Mr. For-
rest. Ponce has got a right to hear it."

The tall man drew a deep breath. "All right/' he agreed,
"111 tell it, but it's a story to be kept inside the racing circle.
It's ugly the ugliest in the world and those like it are few
and far between, thank God. They happen now and then-
like murders but they aren't typical of our ways, as I think
you'll agree.
"Several years ago, the Irish-bred five-year-old filly named

196 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Hagar was shipped to the United States to race. She had a
nickname in fact, she had two of them. In Ireland she was
called 'The Rose of Ireland/ but when she arrived in the
States, some joker took one look and named her 'The Gutted
Reindeer/ If you'd seen her, you'd have known why. She
was a strange looking creature, with the longest, most delicate
legs I've ever seen on a Thoroughbred, the finest head and the
biggest belly that ever an aged brood-mare lugged around.
When people saw her in her stall, or being saddled in the
paddock, they laughed at her. She looked bloated, and she
moved stiffly and heavily,

"But when she stepped onto the track for the parade to
the post, she started to burn all over! Her belly was sucked up
until she looked half starved; her head dipped in until her chin
rubbed her chest. And her tail stuck straight up and floated
behind her like a battle pennant in the wind. When she broke
from the starting gate, she did it like a jet fighter. Every time
I watched those fantastically long legs of hers blurring like
dark spokes in a stretch drive, I thought how perfectly the
'Reindeer' part of her nick name suited her. You had to see
her to believe any animal could run as she ran and even
then you were never quite sure you hadn't been dreaming. She
raced two seasons, and in forty starts she finished first forty
times, going away. She didn't run with fillies and mares; but
with colts and adult troupers, and at the close of her first
season she was carrying top weight in the big handicaps. She
broke three world records and set them again and broke them
again. She was a distance runner. I think her shortest race
was the mile, and she did it as if she were breezing.*

"Her left foreleg gave her a little trouble that first year,
but never enough to cause her owners to scratch** her. The

* The term breezing implies letting the horse choose its own speed, as
opposed to driving, which implies pressure exerted by the rider to attain maxi-
mum speed.

** To scratch a horse is to strike his name from the racing card which is
set up by the Race Secretary of the track.

A FILLY NAMED HAGAR 197

second year she was pulled* six times. That leg was threaten-
ing to crack up. She won all the big races back east, however,
and then she dropped out of sight as if the ground had opened
and swallowed her.

"A couple years later, I found that she'd broken down in
the Arlington Special, at Chicago, and had passed from hand
to hand until she finally went through the auction ring for
$500. I couldn't believe it at first, but later it was verified by
the boy who'd ridden her in every one of her forty races.

"Six years went by, and I heard nothing more about Hagar,
except that she had produced two colts that were threatening
to follow in her footprints. They were both grays and both
giants, and they had their dam's rocket-like speed and her
endurance. Maybe you've heard of Equalizer and Equity? 7 '

He paused and glanced around at his listeners, who nodded.
"They were Hagar's sons by Equipoise," he said quietly.

"Dad!" Barbara cried. "You mean to say Victorio is a
brother to those two triple-crown winners?"

"No," David Forrest answered with a slight smile, "you
forgot what Mr. Thomas said. Victorio is Ishmael, out of
Hagar, by Equalizer."

Ponce was shocked. "You mean they bred Hagar to her
own son?" he asked.

"The best to the best for the best" the owner quoted. He
saw the concern on the young man's face and explained. ' We
do it once in a while, son. When we have two outstanding
examples of a particular blood line, we inbreed to strengthen
the line to preserve the fine points of the dam and the sire.
It is never repeated with another relative. An in-breed is al-
ways followed by an out-cross, in other words, with an en-
tirely different line. The Iron Duke is a double grandson of
City O' Steel and The Dutchess. I wouldn't say he's a bad
example of in-breeding. Would you?"
Ponce took a moment to digest this information. At last

* Pull is synonymous with scratch.

198 MOUNTAIN STALLION

he shook his head. "No, I would not say that. And now, will
you continue Hagar's story, Mr. Forrest?"

"Now/' the man continued, "the story gets ugly. Hagar's
owner pulled her out of retirement and put her back into
training/'

"No!" exclaimed Gil Dreen in a shocked tone. "Why, she
was a five-year-old when she came over from Ireland! She
was a seven-year-old when she went through the auction ring.
If she produced three foals, she'd have been eleven years old,
at least! No decent man would try to bring her back at that
age not with her legs gone bad!"

David Forrest nodded slowly. "You're right, Gil. No decent
man would. But Stafford Thomas did."

This time it was Barbara who broke in. "You mean that
man who was just here, Dad? Did he own Hagar?"

Again David Forrest nodded. "He owned her, all right.

And, Gil, she wasn't an eleven-year-old. She was twelve

* almost thirteen/' He saw disbelief change the trainer's face,

and added emphatically, "I know it's true, because I heard this

part of the whole criminal story from Will Willard, who was

Thomas' trainer at the time. You know Will as well as I do,

and you know he doesn't make things up. He quit when he

got orders to put Hagar back into training. I ran across him

about a month after he left Thomas, and the minute I

learned what that fiend was planning to do with Hagar I

went to him and offered to buy her at whatever price he would

name. He turned me down cold. I went up to $50,000 more

than I could afford at the time. It was no deal. Do you know

why? Impossible as it seems, Thomas had just found out who

Hagar was! With her papers and family tree right under his

nose, he never connected the broken-down broodmare in his

stable with 'The Gutted Reindeer/ When he did, he set out to

prove it for himself. You can pretty well see what kind of a

horseman Thomas is by that.

"He knew she couldn't come back!" David Forrest shouted,

A FILLY NAMED HAGAR 199

as if to convince himself the thing had not happened. "He
knew it, but he made her do it anyway!

''I won't dwell on the details. Hagar, as a thirteen-year-old
who had produced three big foals, wasn't the 'Reindeer' she'd
been seven years earlier. Game as she was and that mare
gave a new meaning to that word, I tell you she couldn't
come back. Her wind was gone, and her legs were gone both
forelegs. They raced her with inhumanely tight stockings,
and those stockings hurt her, as you can well imagine. But
she couldn't run without them.

"She raced one season in classes that made a man sick.
She followed the county and state fair circuit and at first she
ran in the money, such as it was you know $200 and $400
purses. Her legs got worse and worse. Finally, she was barred
from every track in the United States. TTiat should have
stopped Thomas. But it didn't

"He took her to Mexico 1

"She ran just twice at Caliente. I saw her second race . . .
and her last. I'll never forget it as long as I live. Sometimes I
dream it all over again and wake up in a cold sweat, wanting
to kill the man responsible for what happened to that
glorious, broken, magnificent Hagar!"

His voice broke, and he could not go on for a moment. His
hands were shaking, and he clenched them into fists at his
sides. After a while he continued unsteadily, "I don't like to
talk about it. It makes me sick even to think about it."

Ponce crossed his hands on Victorio's neck and realized
they were icy and damp. For an instant he glimpsed Joe
Marino's face, and when he saw the expression of agony on
it, a feeling of mystery and of suspense began to beat its way
into his brain. He said very softly, "We would hear about
Hagar, Mr. Forrest, if you can tell us."

The tall man looked up, his eyes meeting Ponce's. He drew
a long breath, like a diver preparing for the plunge, and
locked his hands together in front of him.

200 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"It was in the sixth race at Caliente, and it was on one of
those still days, with the thermometer standing over 115 de-
grees. I had gone to the barns that morning to again try to buy
Hagar from Thomas. Again I told him to name his own
figure, but it was no use. I tell you, it was as if that man hated
Hagar for breaking down and was determined to make her
do something she couldn't do any more. I saw her standing in
her stall with her bones sticking out like sharp sticks under
her carelessly-groomed coat, and I bawled like a baby. She was
almost white by then, with just her mane and tail still dark.
She was a sick mare. Any kid could have seen that. But she was
entered in the sixth race, and she was going to run, if it
killed her.

"She went to the post with her front legs wrapped so
tightly she could hardly move, but when her rider started
warming her up, she seemed to come to life again. Broken as
she was, she couldn't help stepping out when the call to post
went through her.

"She broke slow. In fact, she was ten lengths behind the
last horse going into the first turn. It was a mile race an im-
possible distance for her at her age, even if she'd been in top
condition but a hundred feet from the turn she started to
move.

"I don't know where she found the strength, nor the wind,
for that sprint, but she moved up on the field, and halfway
around the turn she caught the leaders. She began pulling
away from them. It was impossible, I tell you! Impossible! But
she did it.

"For one instant, coming down the home lane, she ran as
she had run seven years before, her fine head pointed straight
out, her long body flattened and those incredibly long legs
those reindeer legs those ruined legs flashed like the spokes
of a rolling wheel.

"One instant only, a hundred yards from the wire, she
screamed just once. I knew what had happened, and I knew

A FILLY NAMED HA6AR 201

she was going to fall, but she didn't! With the leaders closing
up on her, she held them off and she started stumbling. She
looked as if she were running downhill falling with every
stride.

"She went under the wire three lengths ahead of the
leaders. And then, when her rider started to ease her in,
she went down, as if a wire had tripped her. In full stride, she
collapsed and hit the dirt and skidded fifty feet. When she
tried to get up, both front legs buckled under her like wet
rags. I knew then that I had been right when I saw her stumble
at the head of the stretch.

"She had run over a hundred yards with both forelegs
broken!"

There was a loud gasp from the tense listeners, and
Barbara's great sob rose into the morning air like the cry of
a wounded creature. There were tears in the eyes of David
Forrest, and when Ponce glanced at Joe Marino, he was
shocked to see tears streaming down the rider's quivering
cheeks. Gil Dreen had bent his head and was whispering to
himself in a steady, furious monotone, his usually calm face
pale and drawn.

Ponce looked down into David Forrest's wet eyes. "Finish
it, Mr. Forrest," he whispered. "What did Hagar's owner do?"

"Nothing," said the other hoarsely. "He didn't even come
onto the track to look at her. But I did. I stood there, and for
one sickening moment I watched her try to get those shat-
tered legs of hers under her. She floundered in the dust like a
bird with broken wings. Her rider grabbed her head and tried
to keep her from hurting herself. He was just a kid, and he
was crying as if his heart were broken. I can still hear him
whispering, 'Hagar! Oh, Hagar! Don't try to get up, honey! Die
quickly, sweetheart ... so they can't hurt you any more!' "

"I told the vet to put her to sleep as fast as he could. When
she lay back, her big eyes were fixed on her rider's face. He
took her head in his arms and sat there crying over her while

202 MOUNTAIN STALLION

she died. Even when they hitched a team to her hind legs and
dragged her away, that boy followed along behind, holding
that beautiful head off the ground.

"I had a grave made, and we buried Hagar that evening
just her rider and I. Three days later, I went back to the grave
with a little headstone I had had carved, but there was already
a headstone there. I knew Hagar's rider had put it there. A
big blanket of roses covered the grave and I knew that boy
had probably spent his last cent on those flowers. The wording
on the marble gravestone said:

HAGAR, THE ROSE OF IRELAND

FAIREST OF THE FAIR
AND WINNER TO THE END"

Ponce could not see for the tears blinding him, but he
could still picture Joe Marino's white, quivering face, and he
could hear Barbara weeping wildly in her father's arms. He
turned, wanting to escape to the silence of the distant desert,
but David Forrest's voice held him motionless.

"When I read those words, I went and found the rider. I
asked him if he would come to my stables and ride for me.
I didn't even know his name until he wrote it on the contract
I gave him."

Barbara looked up through streaming eyes. "Who was he,
Dad?"

The tall horseman smiled faintly. "You know him, honey.
He's right behind you. His name is Joe Marino."

20

jLJie yy or la (roes G.

razy

BECAUSE she had perched herself atop the high wall that
enclosed the spacious patio on three sides, Barbara was the
first to see the streamer of dust in the distance. She could
not be certain, at first, because the lowering sun was in her
eyes. She squinted and put both hands up to shade her eyes.
No, she had not been mistaken. It was dust, and it was being
raised by a speeding car. She shouted, "Here they come!" and
turned to clamber off the eight-foot-high wall.

Joe Marino and Ponce jumped forward to catch her ankles
and lower her, but she released her hold before they were pre-
pared. In a tangle of arms, legs and bodies, the three young
people landed on the ground, grunting with surprise.

Alice Forrest tried to instruct her torn-boyish daughter in
lady-like conduct without apparent success, because she could
not keep her face straight.

"Barbara!" she said in what was meant to be a stern voice.
"Young ladies do not climb walls, and if they do, they don't
jump off them and knock everyone silly! Get up off the ground
and straighten yourself out."

The "young lady" did not appear particularly downcast. She
was glowering at Joe Marino, who still lay across her feet,
trying to get his breath. "Stop acting as if you were dying!"

203

204 MOUNTAIN STALLION

she ordered. "I'm the one on the bottom! If you don't get up,
they'll be here!"

The Italian jockey groaned much louder than any seriously
damaged soul could have groaned and rolled over on his back.
"This is it," he whispered in what was meant to sound like
his last breath. "I've had it! Think kindly of me . . ."

Barbara tried to wriggle her feet free. "Ill think a lot
kindlier of you, if you'll remember your manners and help a
lady to her feet," she informed him. "Why didn't you two
characters tell me you were going to grab hold of my ankles?"

Ponce rolled and pushed himself erect. "Why didn't you
tell us you weighed a ton?" he complained, reaching a hand
down to help Barbara up. "Next time . . ." His voice ended
in a loud grunt as she seized the extended arm and jerked him
down on top of Joe Marino.

"Never mind helping me," the girl grumbled, not bothering
to glance at her two fallen companions. "I'll manage on my
own Oft, there they are!"

This last was uttered in a completely unladylike yell as she
leaped up and dashed out through the wide arch. An instant
later, she exclaimed, "Why, that isn't Gabe!"

It wasn't Gabe. It was an utter stranger who wheeled the
long Cadillac convertible up the drive and brought it to a
skidding stop before the archway. It was someone remotely
resembling tie elderly rancher insofar as facial features were
concerned, but this man was dressed in the smartest of
smartly tailored English riding togs. When he opened the
door and stepped out, his high cordovan boots gleamed in the
glow of the sinking sun, and the widely flared breeches showed
not a wrinkle nor crease. The strongly cut features were burned
to a deep bronze, the blue eyes shone brightly under white
brows, and a carefully clipped white moustache edged the
upper lip.

David Forrest, coming up behind the gaping Barbara,
halted abruptly and did some gaping of his own. He choked

THE WORLD GOES CRAZY 205

and coughed and seemed to be in danger of strangling then
and there. He blinked rapidly, his gray eyes beginning to
twinkle. Then he stepped forward and extended his hand.

"Welcome to Shady Mesa, stranger/' he said gravely. "I'm
David Forrest. May I ask your name, please?"

Delgadito spoke from his rigidly upright position on the
back seat of the gleaming yellow convertible. "He won't tell/'
he informed the staring group. "All the way from Phoenix
I keep asking, 'Who are you?' and all the time he just keep
saying, 'Shut up, smart guy!' "

The red-haired Alice Davis came up and stood close to her
husband. Like everyone else, she was staring intently at the
new arrival, and like everyone else's, her blue eyes were
twinkling merrily. "He's evidently a criminal," she announced
matter-of-factly. "You can tell that by watching his eyes.
They're shifty. And why else would he refuse to tell whom
he is?"

"I don't think so," Gil Dreen disagreed solemnly. "He's a
movie star, and he doesn't want anyone to recognize him.
That's why he's dressed like a movie star. I've seen him in
some of those cheap western pictures. Now who . . ."

It was Ponce who proved unequal to the prolonged strain
of play-acting. He stepped close and peered up into the
flushed face. "What happened to you, Mr. Gabe?" he in-
quired seriously. "Who dressed you like this?"

"I dressed me up like thisF*

The bull-like roar sent everyone a foot into the air, effec-
tively closing the play. "Is there any law against a man buying
some new duds for a change? Is there? And since when is it a
crime to buy a little old car, I'd like to know? If Gil Dreen
can drive a Lincoln, I reckon I can match him any old day
in the week!"

No one said anything. The silent scrutiny went on and on,
with everyone holding a hand over his or her mouth to hold
back the laughter.

206 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"Well?" Gabe demanded loudly, ''if everybody's tongue-
tied, maybe this will loosen you up!"

He reached into a breast pocket of his tweed jacket and
pulled forth a long, creased paper. "Run your eyes over that,
Mr. Ponce Stuart!" he ordered and leaned back against the
Cadillac seat.

Ponce took the paper, unfolded it and started to read. The
next instant, he leaped into the air, turned completely around
and came down running. He bounded up the curving drive,
making for the stables, his voice lifted in a nerve-shattering
Apache war cry.

Barbara began, "What " and bent to retrieve the fluttering
paper from the ground. She took one glance, threw the paper
into the air and took off in Ponce's wake, doing her best to
reproduce the war cry in English.

Everyone stared after the two racing figures, shocked into
silence. "My turn," said David Forrest and stepped over to
the fallen paper. He straightened. "Sold" he read slowly,
"one gray, four-year-old Thoroughbred colt." Then he jumped
and almost dropped the paper as Joe Marino's ear-splitting
"Ynti-yniil" exploded in his ears. The next instant, everyone
was staring after the jockey, who was streaking after Ponce and
Barbara.

"All right!" the horseman ordered sternly. "Everyone get a
good grip on his legs, so they can't move. It says here that
Ishmael, otherwise known as Victorio, is the property of one
Ponce Stuart. It says . . ," His voice trailed into silence and
he was forced to watch his wife, Gil Dreen and Delgadito
disobey his order without so much as a "By your leave, sir!" A
moment later, he was left alone with Gabe Stuart.

"All right, Gabe," he said quietly. "Let's have it. Just how
did you manage this?"

The ex-sheep herder's eyes were twinkling in his bronze
face. "It wasn't too hard," he stated casually. "That Thomas
feller can be right reasonable, if you handle him right." He

THE WORLD GOES CRAZY

207

paused, lifting his right hand lazily, and David Forrest saw
the dark bruises on the big knuckles. "And I seemed to handle
him just right."

David Forrest could not have kept from showing his de-
light, if his life had depended on keeping his face straight.
"Did he put up much of a scrap, Gabe?"

"No scrap at all/* the other returned quietly. "About the
time he got his mouth open, I bashed him one. He did some
thinkin' and came up with just the right answer/'

"Aha!" The owner of Shady Mesa made a concentrated

208 MOUNTAIN STALLION

effort to keep his joy in the background. Suddenly his face
sobered, and his eyes looked directly into Gabe's. "What
did it cost you, Gabe?" he asked quietly. "In money, I mean/'

"$10,000," the older man replied.

"You don't have that kind of money."

"I didn't, maybe. I do now."

A suspicious light glimmered in the tall man's gray eyes.
"Your cattle?" he murmured.

"All right!" Gabe said loudly. "So I sold 'em! But before
you go rakin' me over the coals, let me tell you the honest to
gosh truth. All my life I've scraped and raked, tryin' to get
enough money to quit the sheep business an' get into the cattle
game. I can't explain it, but I fenow I'd never have gotten my
cattle if it hadn't been for that there boy Ponce! He's been
more than a son to me. You know that. Look what he done
this last spring! Pulled Desert Storm out of pasture when the
drought struck pulled her out when the vets said she ought'n
to race for another couple months just to win enough money
to put in that there irrigation system! Know anybody else
who'd have done a thing like that? I don't! So along comes
this Victorio and turns out to be a hot-blood, with more
speed than any animal ever could use up in ten lifetimes. You
think I was going to set back and see him lose that horse to a
skunk like Thomas? Would you?"

David Forrest started to shake his head. "I don't know "
he began, then suddenly changed his tone. "No, I think I'd
have done just as you did, Gabe."

"Sure you would!" said the other heartily. "So I went to my
banker an' told him to get ahold of some riders an' have 'em
round up every last critter on my place. I'll get top price for the
herd, an' I'll -have a nice, tidy sum left over, even after that
$10,000 is subtracted. So I did it for my boy Ponce an' for
myself. I found out I don't hanker to look after no cow crit-
ters, after all. I got a yen to go into the horse business with

THE WORLD GOES CRAZY 209

Ponce, an', as of now, you're lookin' right square at Gabe
Stuart, horse-trainer-to-be. Look back here/'

He half turned and indicated the back seat, which was piled
high with books of all sizes and colors.

"What are they?" David Forrest asked, puzzled.

"Horse books!" exclaimed Gabe. "When I get done mem-
orizin' every last one of them, I'll be a trainer beside of which
Gil Dreen will look like a mere exercise boy!"

For a long minute David Forrest looked into the bright
blue eyes. "I want you to know/' he said quietly, "I've been
mistaken about you all this time. I always knew you were a
good man. You aren't You're a great man, Mr. Gabe Stuart."
He reached out and wrung the rancher's work-calloused hand.
"Come along," he invited. "I think we ought to have another
look at your first pupil. You'll have your hands full, getting
him ready for Santa Anita, you know."

Exactly one week later, a sleek car and trailer rolled
through the sleeping town of Arcadia, California, turned onto
Huntington Drive, farther on, then right onto Baldwin Ave-
nue, and finally drew up in front of the Receiving Barn at
the Santa Anita racing plant. In the front seat sat a dis-
tinguished-looking gentleman, obviously a horseman, and a
slight youth, obviously an Indian, and just as obviously a rider.
On the back seat, bolt upright, sat a third man, with bronze
skin and wide-set black eyes in a handsome face.

Delgadito said in a hoarse stage-whisper, "This is Santa
Anita, brother?"

Ponce nodded and looked out through the open window at
the acres upon acres of long, low barns and towering stands.
"Yes," he answered in Apache, "we are here at last, Delgadito.
Do your eyes behold beauty?"

"They behold much," the wrangler stated, showing his
dazzling teeth in one of his rare smiles. "They have not yet
sorted out the beautiful from the ugly, I think."

210 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Gabe Stuart was not thinking about beauty nor ugliness. At
the moment, he was concentrating on Gil Dreen's last-minute
instructions. "I go in there/' he said, as if repeating a well-
learned lesson. "I show Victorious papers to the Race Secretary
and ask for the end stall in barn 99. Then I pay them. Got it!"

He opened the door, climbed out and entered the Receiving
Barn. When he reappeared an hour later, his face wore a
satisfied grin. In a moment, he was guiding the big car down
the rows of stalls toward the most distant barn. "Keep your
eyes peeled and tell me when to turn/' he instructed his com-
panions. "There's sixty-eight . . . seventy-eight . . . ninety-eight
. . . guess we turn here . . . nothing ahead ... Is that ninety-
nine up there, son?"

"Yes," Ponce replied. "And there is the last stall. Put on
the brakes, Mr. Gabe! That's a fence ahead, not a barn!"

"Okay! Okay!" Gabe said. "Only I don't want to throw
Victorio through the front of his trailer into Delgadito's lap!
Aha!" He brought the car to a halt with the air of one ac-
complishing a major undertaking. "We're here!"

That evening, newspapers throughout the country carried
the following syndicated column:

OWNER OF LAST YEAR'S HANDICAP

WINNER ARRIVES AT SANTA ANITA

WITH NEW DARK HORSE

Apache Jockey

On War Trail Again

by Ernest Eisner

Arcadia, Calif. Oct. 3 Who is Victorio? Give up? Then we
will tell you: Victorio is a huge, darkly-dappled, gray four-
year-old son of Hagar and Equalizer. The Stud Book lists him
under the name of Ishmael, but he's Victorio now. In case
anyone is inclined to brush the above information aside with
an indifferent, 'So what?' let us remind one and all that the
word Victorio, when translated, means The Victorious One.

.THE WORLD GOES CRAZY 211

And if that hits a dead nerve, let us further inform said scoffers
that said colt was so named by his young owner and rider, one
Ponce who last year found it not too difficult to boot the fleet
Desert Storm also named by him under the wire lengths
ahead of the odds-on favorite, The Iron Duke. Remember
now? Scared yet?

It is by no means our intention to climb out on the prover-
bial limb to hurl dire predictions of upsets in the offing. We are
restricting ourselves to bare facts, believe it or not. The facts
are that the aforementioned Ponce acquired the burly gray son
of the immortal Hagar by a fluke no one would believe, even if
it were told under oath. We are not on the witness stand, so
we are not going to impart those details and get ourselves called
"Liar!" Suffice it to say that Victorio is here in our midst as
of this morning. He can be viewed at your leisure, if you see
fit to mosey trackward, 'most any day.

Via the grapevine, we learn that the Black Blitz otherwise
known as Desert Storm will not be back for the coming
season. She may be retired permanently, if the recently-sus-
tained injury to her right foreleg proves incurable, as is feared.
It is rumored the injury occurred during a race with the Vic-
torio we mentioned a moment ago. It is likewise rumored that
said race was close mighty close.

Desert Storm, we salute you! Come back, if you can!

To name but a handful of the big names reportedly coming
in soon: Trafalgar, the speedy English colt who's been showing
a clean set of heels to everything thrown at him in the U.S. is
coming out west to show us how it's done out east. Don't
Bother Me, the powerhouse that made his rich owner richer
last year, is coming out of his year's lay-off, bigger and better
than ever, they say. Then there's Blazing High, who's been
down South America way recently. He's coming in for the big
stakes events. The redoubtable Blue Nose will be down from
Canada. And the flashy Stumbler is leaving his native Texas
with his usual storehouse full of "Whoppers."

A final word of caution: Don't do anything rash, such as
trying to pick a winner! Only one thing is certain, my friends.
The world is going crazy the horse world, that is.

21

JDefore the Dawn

J

FOR four days Ponce and Delgadito took turns leading
Victorio up and down the rows of barns, around the grounds
and onto the training track. More often than not, they found
themselves swung off the ground as the stallion reared and
threw his head back and forth in an attempt to see everything
at once. Gabe was convinced that the sooner Victorio found
himself surrounded by the atmosphere he would know for the
rest of his life, the better. Victorio, on the other hand, was
convinced he was in danger of being murdered in his tracks. He
let it be known in no uncertain terms that he disagreed em-
phatically with his new trainer's views on how a wild stallion
should conduct himself.

When in the confines of the roomy stall, the massive gray
whiled away the hours by pacing around and around and
trying to pick quarrels with various other Thoroughbreds
stabled in distant barns. By the end of the fifth day, however,
his three handlers began to hold forth some faint hope for his
eventual surrender to hard and fast facts. In his stall that
night, he frequently paused for minutes at a time to look
through the heavy netting. His shrieks abated toward morn-
ing. When he was taken to the training track for his first
workout under saddle the next morning, he moved restlessly,

212

BEFORE THE DAWN 213

but without real violence. Everyone began to breathe more
easily again including a vast number of Thoroughbreds,
owners, trainers, grooms, stable-hands and riders. The un-
known gray had been rapidly becoming the most unpopular
resident of Santa Anita.

After that, the young Apache and the gigantic Thorough-
bred could be found at the training track, or near it, from
5:30 AM. until 5:30 P.M., day in and day out. Victorio was
placed on a training schedule that would have killed off his
more refined cousins within a month. He became a tireless
machine, instead of a sensitive, high-strung "hot house" racer.
The years spent running the ridges and high plains of the
Mogollons had fitted him admirably to meet the fantastic
demands made upon his constitution now. Unlike others of
his blood, he had escaped the early rigors imposed on young
hopefuls. Now, at the peak of his power, he was being readied
for a belated entrance into the world he claimed as his own
by right of birth. Full grown, hard as iron, swift as an antelope,
he was contrary as a mule.

Ponce never mounted him without the heavy quirt and
sharp spurs not in those first weeks. In order to use the
rowels to best advantage, it was necessary for him to ride with
lengthened stirrups. Other riders, passing on their smooth-as-
silk racers, repeatedly turned to stare at the long-haired, dark-
skinned jockey who rode with those abnormally long stirrups.
They noted also those big rowels and the heavy quirt They
made inquiries in vain, and eventually sought the answers with
the proper person Ponce. They would, one by one, come
alongside, slow down and make idle talk for a while. Then
it would start.

"Who's the big gray boy?"

"Victorio," Ponce would reply, never taking his eyes off the
flattened ears.

"Fast?"

214 MOUNTAIN STALLION

"Maybe."

"Mean?"

"Sometimes." Answering that question, Ponce always asked
himself, "Why don't they look at those ears and those eyes?"

There was usually a long pause as the two horses continued
their tireless jogging or cantering. Then:

"You always ride with stirrups that long?"

"No."

"How come you're doing it now?"

"So the spurs will catch him where it stings."

"You always carry that whip?"

"No."

"How come you're carrying it now?"

"Sometimes I use it."

"Mean, hunh?"

The wide-set black eyes would come around to the curious
one's face, and the hint of a smile would alter the line of the
full lips.

"Me or Victorio?" Ponce would ask.

"Oh! The colt, naturally!"

The black eyes would crinkle at the corners, and Ponce's
teeth would gleam in that slow smile of his.

"When Victorio is mean," he would state, "I am mean
also."

And later, over coffee and doughnuts in the cafeteria, one
of those riders would say to someone else in a low tone,
"Y'know . . . that Indian kid is a character! Who the heck
is he, anyhow?"

Invariably someone would state, "That's Ponce. Remember
last year's Handicap here? He won it goin' away on that black
filly of his, Desert Storm. Won half a dozen other classics
back east, too."

Gradually the word got around, and everyone took to
watching Ponce and Victorio as they kept to their endless

BEFORE THE DAWN 215

circling of the track. With no effort on their part, they were
becoming the most talked-about figures at the plant.

Slowly, but surely, the barriers surrounding the professional
riders were taken down to admit Ponce to the select ranks.
More and more often, he was invited to join the others during
meals in the cafeteria. His quiet manner and soft voice pro-
vided no excuse for anyone's taking offense at anything he did
or said. Whenever he spoke which was seldom indeed his
new friends listened attentively. When he listened, he did it
in a way that left no doubt that he was genuinely interested
in everything said. Before long, it became an accepted custom
for these horsemen to gather before Victorious stall in the eve-
nings and talk of the one thing such people discuss, when
two or more are assembled horses.

October was pounded to death by Victorio's racing hoofs.
November came and began to swing to the rear. There were
long stretches now when Victorio conducted himself for all
the world like a well-mannered Thoroughbred. Once in a
while, he seemed to recall that he was, after all, an unwilling
newcomer to this noisy party. When that happened, the spurs
and the whip would help him to change his mind in short
order. With a snort and a toss of his big head, he would again
take up the briefly-dropped threads and go on weaving the
pattern that had no end.

Then November 2oth came and Trafalgar*

It was an unusually brilliant morning. The sun drew great
clouds of steam from the damp roofs of the barns and the
towering stands, until all the world looked as if it were on fire.
Riding with shortened stirrups for the first time in many weeks,
Ponce held Victorio to a walk until he could become ac-
customed to his action in this new position. He had been on
the track for over an hour and was setting himself more firmly
over the gray shoulders, preparing to let Victorio out another
notch, when he glanced up and saw the big brown plunge onto

216 MOUNTAIN STALLION

the track. It took no second glance to tell him the identity
of that rawboned colt. Nor did he have to look twice to know
that Trafalgar was giving his rider a difficult time.

Holding Victorio to a measured canter, he came on around.
Fifty yards from the new arrival, he heard the rider talking
sharply, angrily, and instantly recognized Bob Willis' voice.
Eager to greet the blue-eyed rider whom he had beat out in
The Arlington Special a few months ago, Ponce moved Vic-
torio ahead more quickly. As they drew even with the brown,
he was aware that Victorio's action had changed from a
smooth glide to a rough, tense motion. But he held him steady
and lifted a hand, calling, "It is good to see you again, Bob
Willis!"

Bob Willis did not smile in return, nor even glance around.
He was giving all his attention to the rough-going Trafalgar
between his knees. His startlingly blue eyes were narrowed,
and his thin cheeks were flushed with anger. He said, "Cut it
out, you scarecrow, or I'll brain you!" and slammed his bat
hard against the colt's right shoulder. Before Victorio could
move, he was pinned against the rail.

For days thereafter, those who witnessed the battle tried
in vain to discover what actually happened out there on the
track. Only Ponce and Bob Willis knew that Trafalgar
whirled and struck Victorio in the belly with both hind feet
and lifted him a foot off the ground. Only Ponce knew what
would happen next and he was helpless to prevent it.

With the crimson hood shutting Trafalgar from sight, Vic-
torio had made no move to attack when the two of them had
been going side by side. He could not see Trafalgar coming at
him and so could not avoid being slammed into the rail. He
could fight back, once his feet came back onto the ground.
And he did!

He reared and lunged for the brown's shoulder, and his
long yellow teeth clicked like the jaws of a steel trap ... on

BEFORE THE DAWN

217

thin air. Trafalgar whirled and lashed out again with both
hind feet, but Victorio, anticipating that move, was not there.
He had sat down abruptly and swung his front quarters to
one side. Then, with a convulsive heave, he lunged in, again
trying for that shoulder. Terrified now, Trafalgar tried to
escape by whirling around short and dodging up the track. As
he jumped, Bob Willis lost a stirrup, clung on for one awful
moment, then flew through the air and landed with a terrific
impact, fifteen feet away. He did not move as the raging colts
wheeled and darted above him, but lay on his face, his hands
locked over the back of his head.

Dimly, Ponce was aware of the milling, shouting crowd
closing in around the two colts. Dimly, he heard Delgadito
shouting to him to use the spurs and the whip. In a flash,
he kicked both feet free of the high irons and brought them
down in a scissors-like drive against the dappled gray hide. The
quirt whispered once as it came down and caught Victorio
across his sensitive nostril. And with a shriek of helpless fury,

218 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Victorio shot down the track at a dead run, all the fight
knocked out of him.

In the backstretch, Ponce glanced over and saw Trafalgar
being led from the track. He breathed deeply when he saw
Bob Willis rise to his feet and beat the dust from his faded
levis. The young Apache kept Victorio to a run for another
mile and a half, then slowed him, when the flattened ears lifted
slightly. When at last he pulled the stallion in to a cooling
jog, there was a great warmth pulsing through the young man.
He had this day learned something that made all the agonies
and uncertainties of the last few months worthwhile.

Victorio would not fight unless attacked!

After that, it was a matter of keeping him too busy to think
of anything except running. Day after day, he was allowed to
breeze for well over a mile. Day after day, he was led out, full
of impatience, in the early morning and brought in at 11:30,
tired and docile. Some time between November 20 and De-
cember 19, Victorio became tame. And one morning Ponce
looked into the wide-set, dark eyes and saw that they were as
clear as the waters of that lake high in the Mogollons. He did
not become excited, did not call Delgadito's and Gabe's at-
tention to his discovery. Almost, he felt humble in the face
of the great thing that had come at last into his hands.

Victorio had been deep in his heart for a long time.

Ponce said to Gabe, "It will not be needful to take him to
the track this day, Mr. Gabe. Shall we not let him rest?"

Long ago, Gabe Stuart had discovered the wisdom possessed
by his adopted son. If Ponce recommended a rest for the
gray, a rest was obviously what the gray needed. He nodded.
"Whatever you think, son. He looks good enough right now to
win the Maturity. I reckon a day off won't hurt him any."

On December 19, Ponce did not bring Victorio in from the
track until shortly before sundown. As he rode along in front
of Barn 99, he noticed that the place was completely deserted.

BEFORE THE DAWN 219

Strange, that. Delgadito had never failed to be on hand to
help with Victorio. He dismounted and peered into the dim
stall. Delgadito might be asleep there he often was. Empty!
Well, then, he would unsaddle Victorio and groom him alone.

As Ponce turned to unstrap the cinch, he spoke sharply.
"Stand still, old goat! You try jumping around like that and
I will show you who's boss!" He reached up and hauled the
high head down. "Be you quiet!"

The big racer was acting strangely. He kept blowing loudly
through his nostrils and dancing up and down on his front
feet, as if preparing to take a high jump. Suddenly, he lunged
away from Ponce, jumped past him and jammed his nose hard
against the crack dividing the upper and lower doors of the
stall adjoining his. When a loud whinney came from the in-
terior, he reared and brought both forefeet crashing down
against the stout boards.

"Victorio!" Ponce shouted sternly, leaping forward to drag
the gray away. "Just because that empty stall is no longer
empty is no reason for you to act crazy." He lifted a hand and
struck the thick neck an open-palm blow. "Get back!" he
ordered harshly. Suddenly angry, he grabbed the lead rope
tied to the ring on the nearby post and snapped the catch
in Victorious bridle ring.

As he went about washing the gray down with a mild solu-
tion of liniment water and massaging the long, dark legs, he
kept glancing around, expecting to see Gabe or Delgadito
returning. They had never failed to be here! By the time he
had completed readying Victorio for the night, he was defi-
nitely worried. Something had happened something bad!

He put Victorio into the stall, snapped the lock on the
door and turned away. In mid-stride he halted, his glance
falling to the half-opened newspaper beside the door. With
an impatient frown, he bent and picked it up and started
toward the cafeteria. An empty trash-can stood at the comer
of Barn 88, and he started to twist the newspaper, preparatory

220 MOUNTAIN STALLION

to throwing it into the container. Quite by accident, he
glanced at it. Quite by accident, he found himself reading:

FAMED DESERT STORM
TO STAGE COMEBACK IN
HANDICAP!

For one endless moment he stared aghast at the big black
letters smeared across the top of the sports section. Then, with
hands that shook, he smoothed the paper out and began to
read swiftly.

Black Blitz Barges Back
With a Bang!

by Ernest Eisner

Arcadia, Calif. Dec. 19 We should have known better
than to be taken in by that conjurer, Ponce! Him and his dark
horses! Just this day we learned that the renowned Desert
Storm is snugly tucked away in Barn 99, at the Santa Anita
track. It seems the powerful classics winner from Arizona did
not have a bowed tendon, after all just a strained muscle in
her right foreleg. True enough, she is reportedly wearing stock-
ings on both forelegs, but they say the classy gal does it out of
sheer vanity not because she needs them. However that may
be, she has been officially nominated to start in The Santa
Anita Handicap, come February 25. Needless to say, her ap-
pearance on the scene as a contender for the second time in
the big 'Cap knocks a good many speculations as to possible
winners right into a cocked hat! Breathes there a man with
memory so short he does not recall what that black tornado
did last year? I think not. I think we will here and now . . "

Ponce did not finish reading the article. Nor did he deposit
the paper in the trash can. He whirled, started to run and
fell flat on his face. He was shouting like a madman as he
scrambled up and streaked toward Barn 99 and the closed
stall adjoining Victorious. His fingers were all thumbs as he

BEFORE THE DAWN 221

tore at the latch. Finally it clicked . . . the upper door crashed
open . . . and he was gazing straight up into Desert Storm's
startled eyes.

The next instant he was inside, pulling the velvety muzzle
down against his chest. He did not then remember that tears
were for children. Quite unashamedly, he wept. Very un-
steadily, he said over and over, "Ah, Desert Storm! You have
come back! You have come back!"

22

JL o the yictor

JANUARY 28, the day of the running of the Santa Anita
Maturity, dawned cold and gray. Toward noon, the skies
cleared, the sun came out, and the air grew close and warm.

Victorio was taken out early in the morning for a leisurely
stroll up and down the cleared area in front of his stall. By
eight o'clock, he was back in his stall. With that inborn
sensitivity peculiar to Thoroughbreds, he realized that this
day was wholly unlike any day he had ever known. Through-
out the morning, he circled his stall restlessly, pausing often to
look out through the wire netting. One o'clock came, then
two o'clock. Then suddenly it was 4:30, and the call to post
rang out above the heavy drone of the packed stands.

As nine racers left the chute separating the grandstands
from the clubhouse stand and filed onto the track, a waiting
hush fell over the grounds, to be broken at length by the an-
nouncer clearing his throat into the microphone.

"Ladies and Gentlemen/' he said suddenly. "The horses
are coming onto the track to begin the parade to the post, in
preparation for the running of the famed Santa Anita Maturity
classic. Nine colts will compete for the richest prize ever
offered for this event. The purse is in excess of $200,000. The
distance is one and one fourth mile. The record is two minutes

222

TO THE VICTOR 223

flat. Now here comes Trafalgar in number one position, with
Bob Willis up. Number two is Blazing High, Pete Hernandez
up. Number three is Don't Bother Me, Johnny Johns in the
irons. Number four is Victorio, with Ponce up. Number . . ."

The uproar in the stands drowned out the voice, and Ponce
was snapped out of his trance by Victorious violent lunge. The
gray went up on his hind legs, came down and turned com-
pletely around. The bat in Ponce's hand popped against the
crouching rump, and the mountain stallion steadied. He fol-
lowed number three entry as if competing in a parade class at
a horse show. Massive neck bowed, tiny ears pointed straight
ahead, tail streaming like a silver flag, he danced along with
that sliding, hesitating action.

At the end of the parade, the nine entries wheeled out of
line and went up the track for the final loosening-up exercises.
Ponce saw Bob Willis swinging across the track toward him
as they rounded the clubhouse turn and he started down the
backstretch at a slow canter. He tried to grin, only to find
that his face was frozen stiff. He nodded then, and ran his
glance over Trafalgar.

The lanky English racer moved with his usual violence,
trying to grab the bit in his cold jaws. His long shoulders were
wet, but no lather had yet appeared on his dark coat. Fractious
he might be, but he was not a horse to leave his race in the
stall.* Taking in the size of him and the long, wiry muscles,
Ponce experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of his
stomach. This was the one Victorio would have to beat!

The trumpet shrilled its final call, and the nine racers
quickened their pace and approached the starting gate, which
had been pulled into position at the half-mile post, directly
back of the far turn. As horse after horse went into the narrow
stalls, the stands fell silent again, then loud cries broke out as

* A racer that sweats too freely and becomes overly excited before a race is
said to "Leave his race in the stall" or "at the gate/' meaning he has burned
up his energy before the race. Such high-strung animals are seldom top runners.

224 MOUNTAIN STALLION

Trafalgar reared and attempted to wheel away. At an order
from the starter, two handlers dashed in and brought the
brown down and urged him into number one stall.

There was no sound, except the soothing whispers of riders
talking to their mounts, the occasional rattle of rear gates
being bumped . . . then these ceased altogether. One endless
moment in which nothing moved . . . and suddenly the crash-
ing jangle of the bell and the announcer's shout:

"They're offl"

In a blinding, deafening hail of dust, sand, clumps of dirt
and shrill cries of jockeys, nine Thoroughbreds broke as one.
Running with that curious, climbing action typical of blooded
racers reaching for their top stride, the nine thundered for
the first turn.

The outside horses dropped back, as the leaders forged off
the straightaway in a scrambling, jostling rush. An instant
later, the homestretch was looming up, impossibly long and
empty. In position number one, the rangy English colt clung
to the rail like a leech, his body stretching out, his legs flash-
ing faster with every stride. Close on his heels, the chestnut
Blazing High was making a strong bid to go up front.

Victorio had broken with the leaders, but midway around
the turn, he fell back and started to drift out, despite every-
thing Ponce could do to hold him steady. Now he was running
with the pack, six lengths behind Trafalgar and Blazing High
. . . running strongly, but failing to close up.

In the stretch drive, Blazing High started to falter, then
moved up under pressure to make a try for the rail before the
clubhouse turn. He made a dazzling rush and was challenging
Trafalgar at the turn.

And Victorio was holding stubbornly to his place on the
outside of the field! He moved almost clumsily. Completely un-
nerved by the terrifying clanging of the bell and the inhuman
cries of the jockeys and the crowd, he seemed unable to
collect himself.

TO THE VICTOR 225

The loudspeaker began its monotonous drone:

"Nearing the half, it's Trafalgar in the lead by half a length.
Blazing High is second, and Blue Nose is third. Now Trafalgar
is into the turn and pulling away from Blazing High, and
Blue Nose is going out and falling back. Around the turn, if s
still Trafalgar by two lengths, Blazing High second, and Blue
Nose folding. At the top of the stretch, it's Trafalgar pulling
away from Blazing High The field is bunched in the turn.
Trafalgar is four lengths on top and turning it on! Ladies and
gentlemen, that Englishman can runl

"Now taking the stretch, it's Victorio moving up on Don't
Bother Me and going on. Victorio moves out to the outside rail
and closes up on Blazing High. Blazing High is fading fast.
He can't take what Trafalgar's thrown at him. Victorio has
taken second place now. He's going in for the kill! Ladies and
gentlemen it looks like a racel

"At the half, it's still Trafalgar out in front by three lengths,
but Victorio's closing fast. And there goes Victorio up on the
outside! He's wavering out. He's giving his rider trouble. Now
he's on the outside rail. And going into the far turn, it's
Trafalgar by three lengths, Victorio in number two place, and
Don't Bother Me leaving the field to take number three. He's
making his move, but it's not good enough.

"In the far turn, Trafalgar has opened up another half
length. He's on top by three and a half. Victorio is on the out-
side rail. And at the mile, Trafalgar is leading by four lengths!

"At the head of the stretch, it's Trafalgar by four lengths,
Victorio second by three lengths, and Don't Bother Me is
trying to open up again. He's coming in on Victorio, but
Victorio starts to move out!

"In the stretch, it's Trafalgar by three lengths, Victorio by
four, and Don't Bother Me by six: Now it's Trafalgar by a
length and a half, Victorio by eight, and Don't Bother Me in
third place. Victorio is closing fast. He's challenging Trafalgar

226

MOUNTAIN STALLION

for the lead! He's out in front by a nose, by a neck, by half a
length.

"Going for the wire, it's Victorio by two lengths, Trafalgar
by eight, and Don't Bother Me by four. And now it's Victorio
going away, and gone!"

For a full minute the uproar was like one continuous roll
of thunder. It seemed to come down from the very skies, blot-
ting out sight as well as all other sound. It followed Ponce
as he took Victorio on into the turn and slowed him. It surged
up again as the announcer called out the names of the winner
and those who had placed and showed. It numbed Ponce and
sent Victorio up onto his hind legs as eager hands reached up
to pull them into the winner's circle.

From all sides questions were being flung at the still-faced
rider on the gigantic gray.

"Did you know you equaled the record?"

No, he did not know that.

"Were you in doubt as to the outcome?"

No, he had not been.

"How does it feel to own a sensational racer like Victorio?"

It felt very good.

"Are you going to continue racing him?"

TO THE VICTOR 227

Yes, he thought he probably would.

'When will you retire him?"

When Victorio tells him it is time to do that.

"Are you taking him back east?"

He would probably do that.

And the inevitable question: "Which of your horses is the
faster, Victorio or Desert Storm?"

Ponce realized that the microphone was suddenly in front
of him, and that the tumult had died away completely. For
one moment he hesitated, then:

"If that were known, they would not both be entered in the
Santa Anita Handicap."

Further questions were halted and changed to cries of alarm
as the batteries of flash bulbs exploded and Victorio reared,
squealing in terror. No one had prepared him for thatl Biting
his lips to keep from laughing outright, Ponce struck his
mount on his right shoulder and wheeled him out of the closely
packed square called the Winner's Circle. He glimpsed people
spilling over the fence and starting toward him, and at that
he banged his heels against Victorious lathered ribs and put
him into the chute at a canter.

Victorio had run for them! Did they want to eat him now?
Glancing neither to right nor to left, he cantered on around
the Seabiscuit Memorial, the George Woolf Memorial and
the saddling paddock. Not until he entered the barn area did
he pull Victorio to a walk. And not until he came in sight of
Barn 99 and saw The Old Apache waiting in the fading sun-
light before Victorious stall did his face relax in a triumphant
smile.

Twenty-six days raced past to the roaring clamor of the
thousands of racing enthusiasts who daily packed the stands.
Horses attained overnight fame . . . and faded from the picture
forever. Through those days, Ponce was seldom absent from
Barn 99. As each day ended, he mentally crossed it off and sub-

228 MOUNTAIN STALLION

traded it from those still remaining. And when at last Feb-
ruary 25 dawned, he still did not know which of his two horses
he hoped would win the great Santa Anita Handicap, He
forced himself to quit thinking about it as he donned the
white and crimson racing silks he had chosen to represent his
two-horse stable. And Joe Marino, Desert Storm's rider in the
coming contest, knew what was troubling his friend and did
not ask the question.

The day had been overcast, with rain threatening since noon.
The rain did not descend; neither did the sun win through the
banks of clouds. As the bugle shrilled out its call to post at
regular intervals, Ponce sat on the edge of a bench in the
jockey's building, his gaze fixed on the floor. On his left, Joe
Marino, dressed in identical racing silks, as the second half of
the double entry, was equally silent and tense. On his right,
Bob Willis could think of nothing to say either. For over
three hours they had held that strained, alert position, break-
ing it only occasionally to get up and take a turn about the
crowded room.

"The horses are entering the saddling shed in preparation
for the sixth race of the day, the famed Santa Anita Handicap."

The loudspeaker, blaring directly above Ponce's head, made
him jump in spite of himself. He blushed suddenly and
glanced sideways, then laughed outright upon seeing his two
companions in a position identical with his own half rising,
half sitting. There was something he had to tell Joe. Any
minute now, the loudspeaker would send them out to the
paddock. It would be too late then.

"Joe/' he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "you are in
number two stall, and I am in number three. If you can, get
Desert Storm on the rail quickly. She drifts out in the turns-
very badly."

Bob Willis heard that and grinned widely. "And where," he
asked, "do you think Trafalgar will be all that time?"

TO THE VICTOR 229

"Hangin' onto Desert Storm's tail/' Joe Marino shot back,
his eyes twinkling. "If he's lucky, that is!"

"Oho!" Willis replied. "You just . . ."

"Riders out!" came the call, effectively silencing him. A
moment later, the magnified voice was saying, "Ladies and
gentlemen, the riders are entering the paddock to claim their
mounts for the sixth race."

In traditional, police-guarded single-file, eleven wiry figures
in brilliant silks and gleaming boots stepped into view. With
typical "visitor's luck," the English-born Trafalgar had again
managed to draw post position. And to complete the ironic
picture, Joe Marino wore the white "2" on its black card
pinned to his right shoulder, while Ponce walked in third
place.

Dejgadito stood at Desert Storm's head, waiting to give Joe
Marino a hand up. Gabe Stuart, looking every inch the suc-
cessful horseman, was holding Victorio's bridle ring as Ponce
walked up and stood waiting for the signal to mount

"As trainer of your stable," Gabe said with a grin, "I'm sup-
posed to tell you how to ride this here race, so I will. Ride it
to win, you hear?"

Ponce tried to reply, but his throat was like sandpaper, and
he could only nod and wink.

"Reins over!"

In response to the command, eleven pairs of reins were
lifted and passed over eleven high heads.

"Riders upl"

Gabe stooped, extending his right hand. Ponce's left foot
touched it, his right leg bent, straightened, and the next in-
stant he was settling himself atop the tiny pad of leather and
steel, his hands gathering in the soft leather reins. He waited
until he saw Joe Marino turn Desert Storm toward the chute,
then moved Victorio out on the filly's heels. Behind him, eight
riders, some with ponies siding them to help control their

230 MOUNTAIN STALLION

mounts, wound around the paddock and plunged into the
shadowy chute.

There was an interval of near-darkness, then, just as Tra-
falgar lunged onto the track and turned up past the towering
tiers of the stands, the sun burst from behind the clouds. Into
this blinding glare, Ponce rode Victorio. He kept his gaze
fastened on Desert Storm's haunches, directly in front of him.
He was dimly aware of the loudspeaker starting the seemingly
endless introductions. Trafalgar and Bob Willis received
resounding applause. The big brown had taken three large
purses since his defeat in the Maturity. The applause gained
volume as Desert Storm and Joe Marino were announced.
With her white stockings gleaming like snow against her black
coat, and her crimson hood matching the crimson silks of her
rider, the big filly was a sight to bring the most listless specta-
tor to his feet With genuine joy, the crowd welcomed her
back.

Just as the announcer said, "Victorio . . ." Ponce banged
his heels against the gray's ribs and jerked on the reins,
stifling the violent reaction of his mount before it could
begin. And though he knew the crowd was applauding wildly,
the young Apache heard nothing at all. Once again he was
riding through a completely silent vacuum. Automatically, he
turned Victorio and moved him up alongside Desert Storm
for the warm-up. He did not even hear the second ovation
accorded the gray and the black as they swept past the stands
in perfect unison.

Inside the starting gate were the dying sounds of rumps
banging against rear-gates, whispered commands and impatient
champing of bits. They faded . . . stopped. No one breathed;
no one moved his eyes from his mount's ears.

And then the world turned upside down as the bell jangled
and the gates crashed open.

Victorio broke fast, took two surging leaps, then stumbled.
Terrified, Ponce felt the great shoulders sinking under him.

TOTHEVICTOR 231

He threw all his weight back in an effort to pull the gray up.
He heard screams rocketing off to his right and felt sure that
a horse had gone down . . . perhaps more than one. He
glimpsed a black form shooting out on his left and knew that
Joe Marino was getting Desert Storm to the rail. And then
Victorio was starting to move like a thunderbolt after the
flashing leaders.

Ponce weaved back, caught his balance and flung himself
flat against the straining neck. Through the whipping silver
mane, he glimpsed the rear hoofs of the leader, but it was not
Desert Storm, and it was not the leader, after all. A groan was
wrenched from him as he saw a brown streak going into the
turn, a full length ahead of Desert Storm and four lengths
ahead of Victorious out-thrust head. He uncocked his whip
and touched the churning shoulder below his right knee. A
bay was coming up on that side, threatening to cut in ahead
of him. The bay dropped back out of sight, as if running
backwards, and Ponce gasped for breath. Victorio had obeyed
the demand for more speed with breathtaking suddenness and
power. His dark legs were stretching farther with every stride,
and at the top of the home stretch he was going strongly, less
than half a length behind the madly running Desert Storm.

Victorious move had taken him up in time to hold the filly
from going out in the turn, and together they swept past the
stands after the thundering Trafalgar. One glance was enough
to show Ponce that the English colt was out to take this race.
Held to the rail by Bob Willis and feeling the sting of the
bat at every lengthening jump, he was setting a pace calculated
to kill off all opposition in the opening sprint. He was display-
ing more power than Ponce had believed him capable of. His
lead over Desert Storm and Victorio was increasing steadily.

Four lengths separated the leader from the black and the
gray as the clubhouse turn rolled toward them, then tipped
under them. It stretched to five as Desert Storm drifted out

232 MOUNTAIN STALLION

halfway around and crowded Victorio into the middle of the
track. Then it ceased to widen.

Joe Marino's bat popped once against the thrusting, heav-
ing shoulders of the filly, and she straightened immediately.
The next instant, she was stretched out in a murderous drive.
Like a comet, she bore down on the strongly running Trafalgar.
At the half, she was within a nose of the bulging brown rump.

Caught completely off guard by the filly's blinding burst
of speed, Ponce could not collect his wits until it was too late.
He pulled himself out of the saddle and screamed into Vic-
torio's flattened ears, and his right arm commenced to rise
and fall with a steady rhythm. The thought flashed through
his mind that, by giving his filly a helping hand in the club-
house turn, he had unwittingly lost Victorio his opportunity to
win the race!

Under the bat, Victorio lunged wildly, then began to reach
out in those incredibly long strides. Within a hundred feet,
he was fully extended, running with a curiously long, floating
action. The action of a strider! Without quickening the tempo
of his strides, he had his crimson hood at the tip of Desert
Storm's tail as the filly went with Trafalgar into the far turn.

Ponce knew what would happen if he permitted Victorio to
go on. Ii the instant before Desert Storm wavered, he pulled
the rigid head of his mount to the left and took him up on
the insic 2. Without looking, he knew that Desert Storm was
running wide in the turn. . . . She had never been able to
cling to the rail. And then light appeared between the rail
and the breaking brown.

Trafa jar was going wide also!

In a f ish, Ponce had Victorious nose pointed at that slowly
widenin patch of light, and he was driving the gray into it
with wl p, hands and heels. He saw Bob Willis throw one
startled ook back and take Trafalgar out to allow Victorio
running room. Pulled out, the brown wavered, then surged
forward inder the punishing whip as the track straightened.

TO THE VICTOR 233

Victorio was moving up with deadly intent, giving his all
in the final drive. Feeling the awful strain in the body under
him, Ponce knew the utter futility of demanding more speed.
With his brain locked on the single thought, Victorio would
give until he had nothing more in him to give.

Ponce turned the bat loose and let it dangle from its loop
on his wrist.

Close to the rail, Victorio was flashing out to catch Trafalgar
and succeeding! His crimson hood edged up, inch by inch,
drew even with Bob Willis' wildly working left foot and passed
it. And then the crowd went mad as Desert Storm began mov-
ing in.

She came on ... on ... on ... running madly, beautifully.
Halfway down the stretch, she caught Trafalgar and matched
him stride for stride. In the closing seconds of that heart
breaking struggle down the endless sweep of track, Joe Marino
quit using the whip. Clearly, all too clearly, the magnificent
filly was giving everything she had in an effort to hold on. No
one could demand more.

And Victorio was leading by a head only for an instant,
though. A hundred feet from the wire, he faltered ever so
slightly, and again three flaring, foam-matted muzzles were
held straight by an invisible, ungiving wire.

The wire snapped.

Desert Storm dragged one final ounce of strength from
somewhere deep inside her valiant heart and thrust her nose
past Trafalgar's. The brown sprinter did not have what it took.
He could not meet her challenge.

Victorio could!

He seemed to gather himself in mid-stride. In one uncoiling
movement, he shot out to place his red-rimmed nostrils against
the invisible barrier that once again stretched across the track.
Head and head, nose and nose and stride for stride, the gray
and the black streaked across the finish line.

"Photo finish!"

234 MOUNTAIN STALLION

The letters blinked atop the tote boards. A moment later
the announcer was telling the hysterical crowd that there
would be a short delay until the films were developed.

Turning back toward the judges' stand, Ponce and Joe
Marino exchanged brief, knowing glances. They did not have
to wait for pictures to tell them the winner of the great
struggle. They knew. They smiled tightly, in the way of men
made uncomfortable by knowledge of greatness accomplished,
as they came down the track. Horses, riders and handlers were
dashing about in the purposeful disorder which is the after-
math of every race. Joe Marino took Desert Storm wide as
Blue Nose reared nervously, throwing his rider, who was in
the act of dismounting. Ponce, on his part, whirled Victorio
away to avoid a collision with Trafalgar. The beaten brown
was completely undone and he reared repeatedly, attempting
to free himself of the two handlers who clung to his bridle
and maneuvered him toward the chute.

The track was cleared at last. Only two horses remained, a
gigantic gray that lunged about with increasing anger and
fear and a powerful black that moved restlessly after the gray.
They were unstrung by the deafening clamor raining down
from the packed tiers. Again and again, they reared and tried
to bolt up the track, to escape the terrifying confusion, but
always they came down and continued their uneasy circling
back and forth before the judges' stand.

"Ladies and gentlemenl" roared the loudspeaker. Silence fell
instantly over the stand and field, as thousands strained to
hear the fateful words. "The Santa Anita Handicap ended in
a dead heat, with Desert Storm and Victorio taking first place.
That's number two and three, ladies and gentlemen. Trafalgar
finished in second place, Don't Bother Me finished third, and
Blue Nose was fourth. The results of the race have been de-
clared official."

That was. all, so far as the spectators were concerned. The
uproar surged out louder and louder, and a solid wave of

TO THi VICTOR 235

humanity rolled toward the winner's circle. A cordon of
policemen was thrown about the flower- and shrub-enclosed
arena and a lane was opened to admit the two lathered win-
ners.

Ponce glanced up and saw Joe Marino's eyes on him, bright
and twinkling. The veteran jockey winked broadly and flashed
him a smile, as if to offer him moral support during these
trying moments. He started slightly when the cameras began
flashing blindingly on all sides, then put all his attention into
the business of keeping the enraged and terrified Victorio
under control. He felt the great animal sinking away under
him and struck the wet shoulders a sharp blow with the whip.
The action came barely in time to prevent the gray from lung-
ing straight into the sea of faces before him. Without warning,
Victorio lashed out with both hind feet, almost unseating his
rider, and again the whip slapped smartly. Ponce knew he
could control the mountain stallion but a short time longer,
knew he must dismount and get him away from there before
something really serious occurred. He turned to ask Joe Marino
when they could get down, only to find the jockey gone.
Wildly he glanced about, feeling utterly deserted amid the
confusion. A dozen reporters were trying to ask him questions
at the same time, but he could make no sense from their re-
marks. An instant later, he heard Joe Marino's voice. Amplified
and deepened by the loudspeaker, it did not sound like his
friend's, but another voice kept calling him "J oe >" so Ponce
knew it must indeed be he. With a silencing gesture toward
the impatient reporters, he kicked his feet free of the irons
and slid to the ground. He was dimly aware that Delgadito
was already at Victorio's head, dimly aware of Gabe Stuart
holding Desert Storm's reins, a dozen feet away. Then Joe
Marino's unfamiliar voice was coming from the loudspeaker
again.

"No, I didn't know I had the race sewed up," the wiry
rider said in evident denial of the announcer's suggestion. "I

236 MOUNTAIN STALLION

didn't know anything for sure, except that I had a terrific
filly under me."

"Did you think Desert Storm could beat Trafalgar, Joe?"
the announcer asked.

"I didn't think any such thing/' came Joe's instant reply.
"I knew she could." He paused, while a roar of laughter went
up from the listeners, then stated with wry humor, 'The only
thing I got to wondering about was if there was going to be
enough track left for her to do it in!"
"Did she give you any trouble?"

"In the turns/' the jockey admitted honestly. "She's got
a bad habit of lugging out, but that's her only fault."

"What about Victorio?" the announcer wanted to know.
"When did you feel you had him?"

"You kiddin'?" the rider shot back. He made a face, en-
joying this moment hugely, then said in that humorous way of
his, "I knew I had him the second the announcer said, 'dead
heat' and not one second before!"

Again laughter swelled out, and then hands were clutching
Ponce's arms and dragging him toward the place where Joe
Marino stood beside the announcer.

"What was your impression of the race, Ponce?" the man
demanded. "Just when did you know you had the race in your
pocket?"

Ponce frowned. "I did not know I had it," he stated quietly.
"At the head of the stretch, I thought Victorio would go on
up, but I did not know."
"Did Desert Storm's move surprise you?"
"Yes," Ponce admitted, nodding slowly. "Yes, that sur-
prised me."

The announcer's next question was the one Ponce had been
dreading, the one he had known would certainly come.

"You own the two winners, right?" He waited for Ponce's
nod, then continued, "Which, in your opinion, is the faster
and greater of the two, Desert Storm or Victorio?"

TO THE VICTOR 237

Ponce waited a long moment, the while he searched for the
right answer to give the countless thousands who watched and
listened. Quite honestly, then, he said, "I do not know the
answer to that. I do not know, either, how Desert Storm man-
aged to catch Victorio in this race. I think, though, she could
not have gone past him."

There was a short pause. Suddenly a man stepped up to the
announcer and whispered something in his ear. He was watch-
ing Ponce as he talked, and he went on watching him when
he ceased and stood waiting for the announcer to speak.

"What would you say/' the announcer asked excitedly, "if
you were asked to match your two horses, one against the
other?"

Ponce was too stunned to reply immediately. He caught his
breath, swallowed and blinked rapidly. "You mean a match
race?" he asked slowly.
"Exactly!"

"I had never thought of that. I think you must give me a
little time. If it is what they want," he half turned and
gestured toward the sea of faces, "it may be that Desert
Storm and Victorio should run together again for them." He
hesitated, than said again, "You must give me a little time."
The other would have pressed him for a definite answer
then, but Ponce was finished. He turned and made his way
through the close-pressed throng to where Delgadito and Gabe
Stuart stood with the pair of horses that had this day proved
their greatness to the world. He turned when someone shouted,
"Give us a shot of you with your two winners, Ponce!"

Obediently, he took the reins from Gabe and Delgadito and
stood between the two huge animals. For a moment he felt
very small . . . and completely alone, but when the cameras
had clicked once and for all, he turned to look at his racers.
Instantly, his own uneasiness vanished as his eyes read the
almost senseless terror which possessed Desert Storm and Vic-
torio. He sent his voice into their ears, speaking steadily in

238

MOUNTAIN STALLION

the Apache tongue they had come to know. Gradually, the
tension left them. The filly reached out to nuzzle his gleaming
silks, and the stallion, true to his nature, attempted to sample
the same silken material with his teeth, until Ponce spoke
firmly to him.

"Desert Storm/' he murmured, "and Victorio the vic-
torious one. So they shout when they see you run, like the
winds from the desert and the mountains. I have a thought.
You should have one name between you, for what you have
done this day. 'Los Victories/ the victorious ones, for so you
are to me. Enju. It is well, is it not?"

PRONUNCIATION AND EXPLANATION
REFERENCE

BACKSTRETCH Usually referred to simply as "the stretch." The

straight stretch of track on the far side directly following the

clubhouse turn.
BAT A slender whip with a loop of a series of small leather strips

affixed to the end.
BOWED TENDON A much-dreaded injury to a horse's front legs.

The big tendon pulls loose from the bone, resulting in the

tendon's assuming the shape of a strung bow.

BRONCO A term applied to an unbroken wild horse.

BRUSH Another term for bat or whip.

CLUBHOUSE TURN The turn in the track on the grandstand's

right.
DALLO CHIE (dah-yo-chee) An Apache word meaning "Son of

the Roper."

DELGADITO (del-gah-deeto) Spanish for "The slender one."

DRIVE A term signifying that a horse is moving under pressure

from his rider. A straining effort to increase speed and maintain

it over a distance.
EARLY-FOOT The ability of a horse to "scat" or break from the

starting gate at top speed.
EQUIPOISE (eh-kwi-poyz) A latin word meaning "Of Perfect

Balance." Also the name of one of the all-time greats of the track.

FAR TURN The turn to the left of the grandstands.

HAGAR (hay-gar) An ancient Hebrew word meaning "Flight."

239

240 PRONUNCIATION AND EXPLANATION

HANDICAP A term indicating the equalizing process whereby

various entries are assigned weights (lead tabs) according to
sex, age, number of wins, etc. The addition of so much as a mere
pound often spells the difference between victory and defeat.

HOME STRETCH Usually referred to simply as "The Lane" or

"Home Lane." It is the straight stretch directly in front of the
stands.

HOOD or BLINKERS A covering for a horse's head, usually of

light canvas or felt, equipped with cup-like attachments behind
the eyes to prevent the horse from being distracted.

INDIAN BRIDLE A halter fashioned with a slip noose over the

nostrils to control unmanageable animals.

ISHMAEL (ish-may-el) An ancient Hebrew word meaning

"Wanderer."

JOCKEYS' BUILDING The building or room in which riders dress

and wait between races. It is guarded at all times and only grooms
and racing officials are permitted to speak with the riders be-
tween races.

JOTO (ho-to) An Apache word meaning "One-eyed giant."

JUAN (hwan) John

LUG A term indicating a horse's tendency to run counter to

guidance, i.e. "lug in" toward the rail, or "lug out" toward the
outside.

MUSTANERO (moos-tan-yaro) The name given to a little-known

group of wild horse runners in the southern and southwestern
section of the U. S. and northern Mexico.

MUSTANG A species of wild horse formerly found in the south-
western part of the U. S.

PONCE (pon-say) Meaning "leap" or "jump."

RATE To govern a horse's speed.

REATA A slender rope of braided rawhide or horsehair, com-
monly used in the southwest.

RECEIVING BARN The building holding the offices of track

officials, veterinarians, etc. All horses must report to this building
to be examined, stabled and checked into the grounds.

PRONUNCIATION AND EXPLANATION 241

ROUTER A distance horse as opposed to a sprinter.

SADDLING PADDOCK (or shed) The place where the horses are

saddled for a race. Usually located to one side of the stands or
behind them, it is occasionally situated directly in front of the
stands so that the crowds may observe the ritual.

SPRINT A term signifying a horse's running at top speed, usually

over a short distance, as opposed to a drive.

STOCKINGS Wrappings of linen or other stout material used for

wrapping horses' legs. Sometimes applied to support a real or
suspected weakness, they are also employed in doctoring various
ailments of the legs.

TRAFALGAR (tra-fal-gar) The name of the famous square in

London named in honor of Lord Nelson's victory over Na-
poleon's fleet.

TOTE BOARD Officially known as the "Teetotalizing machine/'

it is a large board equipped with lighted numbers indicating the
betting odds on each race and is situated in the infield directly
across from the stands.

VICTORIO (vik-tor-eeo) Spanish for "The Victorious One/*

WINNER'S CIRCLE An enclosure in front of the stands into

which the winner of a race is led for the awarding of trophies,
prizes, etc. Despite its name, it is more frequently square or
rectangular in shape than circular.

YOSEN (yoh-sen) The Apache Supreme Being, commonly trans-
lated as "Giver of Life."

LOGAN FORSTER

says of himself: "I have done a little of everything. I served six
years as Pharmacist's Mate in the Navy, bucked and felled timber
in Oregon, worked in lumber mills, ploughed wheafland in Texas,
attended the University of Colorado and served as director for
The Nomad Players in Boulder, Colorado. A few years ago, I
withdrew from school to brave the "writing world/' My DESERT
STORM books are part of the result.

"My hobbies range from playing the piano through working with
charcoals and pastels to horses. From whatever angle you look at
me, you'll see HORSES in the background, because they com-
prise the major part of my life. I am still in quest of that Arizona
ranch, and as soon as I find it, I'll move my horses onto it and go
wild with them!

"I am never happier than when working with my horses, unless
it be when I am writing about them. As a matter of fact, it was
while I was battling my own young Arabian stallion, one day, that
I decided to write a story about the training of a stallion. THE
MOUNTAIN STALLION is the result of a certain tussle which
ended with me on the stable floor and Mighwar on top of me
and all because I was trying to inject some medicine into his in-
fected right foreleg!

"Whenever I cannot be found around my own horses, I can be
found at the race track just any race track! In my estimation, there
is no thrill in the world equal to that experienced by a lover of
horses when a field of great Thoroughbreds thunders past the
judge's stand in that mad, flying scramble for the lead and the rail.
To me, the great striders seem always to be just on the verge of
taking off into the air during that first driving sprint. And for me,
life's one great question is answered each time I see "The Fast
Ones' run. Why am I running? I am running because I want
to win! I think I can beat all the rest if not this time, then surely
the next or the next. And if I lose, it won't be for lack of trying!"